Read Online A Brig of War by Richard Woodman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Woodman
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, Historical, Action & Adventure, History, Sea stories, War & Military, Ancient, middle east, Great Britain, Napoleonic Wars; 1800-1815, Drinkwater; Nathaniel (Fictitious Character), Great Britain - History; Naval - 19th Century, Men's Adventure, Egypt, Egypt - History - 1517-1882
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the ship than a safeguard.
Quilhampton’s essay echoed the gunroom debate as to the armament of brigs, repeating the carronade versus long gun argument and concluding in didactic vein
whatever the main armament of the deck, the eighteen-gun brig-of-war is, under the regulation of 1795, the smallest class of vessel to carry a boat carronade.
Drinkwater was folding the papers away when a cry sent him hurrying on deck.
‘Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!’
He drew back from the ladder to allow Griffiths, limping painfully but in obvious haste, to precede him up the ladder. As the two men emerged on deck the pipes were shrieking at the hatchways. Lestock jumped down from the weather rail and offered his glass to Griffiths. Trench cruiser, by my judgement.’
Griffiths swore while Drinkwater reached in his pocket for his own glass. It was a frigate beyond doubt and a fast one judging by the speed with which her image grew. She was certainly French built and here, south of Ascension Island in the path of homecoming Indiamen, probably still in French hands.
‘All hands have been called, sir,’ said Lestock primly.
‘Mr Drinkwater, have the mast wedges knocked out and I want preventer backstays rigged to’t’gallant mastcaps!’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’ Lestock was already bawling orders through the speaking trumpet and the topmen were racing aloft to rig out the stunsail booms. Drinkwater slipped forward to where Johnson, the carpenter, was tending the headsails, hoisting a flying jib and tending its sheet to catch any wind left in the lee of the foresails as their yards were braced square across the hull.
‘Mr Johnson, get your mates and knock the mast wedges out, give the masts some play: we want every fraction of a knot out of her. Then have the bilges pumped dry and kept dry for as long as this goes on.’ Drinkwater jerked his head astern.
Johnson acknowledged the order and sung out for his two mates in inimitable crudity. Drinkwater turned away and sought out Grey, the bosun.
‘Mr Grey, I want two four-inch ropes rigged as preventer backstays. Use the cable springs out of an after port. Get ‘em up to the t’gallant mastcaps and secured. We’ll bowse ‘em tight with a gun tackle at the rail.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘And Mr Grey
‘
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t want any chafing at the port. See to it if you please.’ It was stating the obvious to an experienced man, but in the excitement of the moment it was no good relying on experience that could be lost in distraction.
As he went aft again Drinkwater was aware of the lessening of the wind noise in the rigging. Running free cut it to a minimum, while the hull sat more upright in the sea and it was necessary to look to the horizon to see the wave-caps still tumbling before the strong breeze to convince oneself that the weather had not suddenly moderated. Already the stunsails were being hoisted from their stowage in the tops, billowing forward and bowing their thin booms. Lestock was bawling abuse at the foretopmen who had failed in the delicate business of seeing one of them clear of the spider’s web of ropes between the top and its upper and lower booms. A man was scrambling out along the topgallant yard and leaning outwards at the peril of his life to clear the tangle.
Lestock’s voice rose to a shrill squeal and Drinkwater knew that on many ships men would be flogged for such clumsiness. Lestock’s vitriolic diatribe vexed him.
‘Belay that, Mr Lestock, you’ll only fluster the man, ‘twill not set the sail a whit faster.’
Lestock turned, white with anger. ‘I’ll trouble you to hold your tongue, damn it, I still have the deck and that whoreson captain of the foretop’ll have a checked shirt at the gangway, by God!’
Drinkwater ignored the master. The distraction had silenced Lestock for long enough to ensure the stunsail was set and he was far too eager to get aft and study the chase.
He joined Griffiths by the taffrail,
Quilhampton’s essay echoed the gunroom debate as to the armament of brigs, repeating the carronade versus long gun argument and concluding in didactic vein
whatever the main armament of the deck, the eighteen-gun brig-of-war is, under the regulation of 1795, the smallest class of vessel to carry a boat carronade.
Drinkwater was folding the papers away when a cry sent him hurrying on deck.
‘Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!’
He drew back from the ladder to allow Griffiths, limping painfully but in obvious haste, to precede him up the ladder. As the two men emerged on deck the pipes were shrieking at the hatchways. Lestock jumped down from the weather rail and offered his glass to Griffiths. Trench cruiser, by my judgement.’
Griffiths swore while Drinkwater reached in his pocket for his own glass. It was a frigate beyond doubt and a fast one judging by the speed with which her image grew. She was certainly French built and here, south of Ascension Island in the path of homecoming Indiamen, probably still in French hands.
‘All hands have been called, sir,’ said Lestock primly.
‘Mr Drinkwater, have the mast wedges knocked out and I want preventer backstays rigged to’t’gallant mastcaps!’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’ Lestock was already bawling orders through the speaking trumpet and the topmen were racing aloft to rig out the stunsail booms. Drinkwater slipped forward to where Johnson, the carpenter, was tending the headsails, hoisting a flying jib and tending its sheet to catch any wind left in the lee of the foresails as their yards were braced square across the hull.
‘Mr Johnson, get your mates and knock the mast wedges out, give the masts some play: we want every fraction of a knot out of her. Then have the bilges pumped dry and kept dry for as long as this goes on.’ Drinkwater jerked his head astern.
Johnson acknowledged the order and sung out for his two mates in inimitable crudity. Drinkwater turned away and sought out Grey, the bosun.
‘Mr Grey, I want two four-inch ropes rigged as preventer backstays. Use the cable springs out of an after port. Get ‘em up to the t’gallant mastcaps and secured. We’ll bowse ‘em tight with a gun tackle at the rail.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘And Mr Grey
‘
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t want any chafing at the port. See to it if you please.’ It was stating the obvious to an experienced man, but in the excitement of the moment it was no good relying on experience that could be lost in distraction.
As he went aft again Drinkwater was aware of the lessening of the wind noise in the rigging. Running free cut it to a minimum, while the hull sat more upright in the sea and it was necessary to look to the horizon to see the wave-caps still tumbling before the strong breeze to convince oneself that the weather had not suddenly moderated. Already the stunsails were being hoisted from their stowage in the tops, billowing forward and bowing their thin booms. Lestock was bawling abuse at the foretopmen who had failed in the delicate business of seeing one of them clear of the spider’s web of ropes between the top and its upper and lower booms. A man was scrambling out along the topgallant yard and leaning outwards at the peril of his life to clear the tangle.
Lestock’s voice rose to a shrill squeal and Drinkwater knew that on many ships men would be flogged for such clumsiness. Lestock’s vitriolic diatribe vexed him.
‘Belay that, Mr Lestock, you’ll only fluster the man, ‘twill not set the sail a whit faster.’
Lestock turned, white with anger. ‘I’ll trouble you to hold your tongue, damn it, I still have the deck and that whoreson captain of the foretop’ll have a checked shirt at the gangway, by God!’
Drinkwater ignored the master. The distraction had silenced Lestock for long enough to ensure the stunsail was set and he was far too eager to get aft and study the chase.
He joined Griffiths by the taffrail,
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