The bosun reappeared. ‘New tiller-ropes shipped, sir,’ he said.
‘Very good, Mr Crown: stand by to bend a sail to the crossjack yard.’
The Cornélie opened with her bow-chasers again, the plume of one ball drenching them.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the bosun at last, more amazed by the order than the splash, hearty though
-it was. He had never bent a crossjack in his life.
‘Mr Fielding, sway up fore and mizen topgallant masts
.’ The orders came fast, with no emphasis but with great authority: as soon as this strange sail was set and drawing and hammocks piped up, hands were to go to breakfast by half-watches: four picked hands at the wheel with Fielding himself at the con.
All this while the chasers had been barking at one another with no greater effect than pierced sails and some cut rigging, but by the time the crossjack was giving its almost unknown and potentially very dangerous thrust the Cornélie had made up the distance lost during her broadsides and she was gaining fast. Jack altered course to bring the wind from right aft to near enough her quarter for the crossjack not to becalm the maincourse: she gathered way at once. After ten minutes of very close attention and the setting of two more jibs he decided that their speeds were as nearly equal as he could expect without a maintopsail, and he told Seymour, in charge of the aftermost larboard carronades, and his two midshipmen to stand by. The Nutmeg had fine round buttocks and these carronades, trained as far aft as possible, could be brought to bear by a turn of no more than two points from the Nutmeg’s present course.
He called down through the companion, now a shattered remnant of wood with splinters of glass in parts of the frame, ‘Mr White, run out your gun, make all fast and give the larboard
smashers play: Mr Seymour, we are about to put the helm a-lee. Fire as they bear; fire high; fire quick.’ Crouching under the foot of the crossjack, that anomalous, inconvenient sail, he took the wheel himself.
Round she came, easy, moving faster, the hands too anxious about the strange sail’s sheet and tack to worry about the Cornélie’s chasers: round: and the first carronade went off, followed by two simultaneously. As Jack had expected the Cornélie put her helm hard over and answered with a full broadside; and as he expected it was not nearly so accurate as her first deadly shooting. How many times Seymour’s division fired he could not tell, so confused was the sequence, but at one time he heard them roaring like maniacs for round-shot,
their racks and garlands running low. ‘I think it was six apiece, sir,’ said Adams, standing there with an inkhorn in his buttonhole and a watch in his hand, taking notes.
The Cornélie did not fire again but resumed the chase, with the loss of two cables’ lengths; but still she was bringing up the wind and still she had the advantage of the faster ebb.
And so they ran, mile after mile, the Cornélie perfectly aware that the Nutmeg had but to sway up a new maintopmast to outpace her, and perfectly determined that she should not do so. Again and again she yawed, fired a broadside and came on; and whenever she had a little advantage, as when the Nutmeg’s damaged mizen topsail split and carried away, she fired first from starboard and then from larboard, with all the guns she possessed, making a terrible noise. Indeed, their whole progress along the Passage was marked by great flights of sea-birds startled from their ledges on the cliffs.
The Nutmeg usually answered with a jig and an almost equally noisy discharge of carronades, run out in astonishingly rapid succession – almost as many balls on the one side as the other. Upon the whole the Cornélie’s gunnery was far less accurate – ‘and it is scarcely surprising,’ observed Jack to Fielding as he stood peeling an orange over the taffrail, ‘for if they have been pumping like this all night I wonder they can run up their guns at all, let alone point them straight’ – but five minutes after this stupid remark (for which he cursed himself), at the moment when at last they were about to sway up the new topmast
– all laid along – and when the far end of the Passage was opening, the Cornélie, well within range, yawed and fired two careful, slow, deliberate broadsides that did much damage, above all by cutting the toprope itself and its attendant tackle so that the half-hoisted mast plunged straight down, piercing the deck and wrecking its carefully worked heel and fid-hole.
Yet the Cornélie had lost distance by her double turn and she did not even fire her chasers before the debris was cleared away, before the carpenter and his crew were busy on the heel, and before the opening by which Jack had hoped to elude the Frenchman lay broad on the starboard beam. It was then that
the cry came down from the foretopgallant yard: ‘Sail ho.’
‘Where away?’
‘On the larboard bow, sir. I see her royals just behind the headland, sir. Another. Two sail of ships, sir. Three. Four. God love us. You will see ’em presently, sir.’
‘Topmast ready, sir,’ said Fielding to Jack.
‘Sway it up, Mr Fielding, if you please,’ said Jack. ‘The topgallant after it, and cross the yards as soon as possible.’
He walked with a composed step to the forecastle and fixed the headland with his glass.
Minutes passed; one of the stern-chasers fired a ranging shot and the duel began again –
his prohibition against hurting a hair of the Cornélie’s head had lapsed long since, and the Nutmeg’s one desire was to cripple her before she knocked away a mast. ‘You’ll see ’em directly minute, sir,’ said the lookout in a conversational tone.
The first ship glided out from behind the cover of the high ground. She was not much more than a mile away, and with the breeze on her beam and a press of sail she was steering south-east at perhaps ten knots – a fine bow-wave. Against the young sun he could not make out her armament, but her American colours were plain enough. Two followed her, both steering the same urgent course, both of about the same size, heavy sloops-of -war or small frigates, both wearing American colours. Signals were exchanging at a great pace. A fourth ship and his stony heart broke into flower. He walked back fast, not running, to the quarterdeck: ‘Mr Richardson and the yeoman of signals,’ he called, and Richardson, the signal lieutenant, came hobbling from the waist, his leg thick with bandages. Titus the yeoman followed him, racing aft from the heads. ‘Colours, jack at the jack-staff, private signal, Diane’s number, and Ghase to the north-west. Then telegraph Well met Tom. All from topgallant and stay; and a couple more jacks on the yard.’
Richardson repeated this; Adams wrote it down; the yeoman ran to his colour-chest; Jack called ‘Mr Reade, pray jump down to the sick-berth and tell the Doctor with my congratulations that the Surprise is in sight.’ He looked into the waist, where the hawser to the lower capstan was tautening to sway the
topmast up to the trestle-trees, and he was about to tell Fielding to send up the pennant as soon as the topgallant was in place when a thought froze his heart once more: had the Surprise been captured by an American squadron?
He walked forward. Colours, private signal and direction to chase were already flying; he watched the Surprise with rigid attention. She had hauled her wind and she was running past the other three with her familiar greyhound ease. Behind him the firing had stopped.
He heard the orders for swaying up the topmast and the cry ‘Launch ho’ when it was home and fidded; but all this came from a great way off. Titus composed the message to be sent by telegraph, muttering T,O,M; and at last the Surprise’s colours gave a twitch and raced down. They were replaced by her own to the cheering of far more of the Nutmeg’s hands than had any business to be looking about them; and glancing aft Jack saw that the Cornélie had worn and was heading for the heavy rain-squalls in the north-west.
‘The Doctor’s compliments, sir,’ said Reade. ‘He gives you joy of the meeting and will come on deck as soon as he is free.’
Dr Maturin was free by the time the Nutmeg, with her maintopsail, maintopgallant and man-of-war’s pennant restored, had turned in pursuit of the Cornélie; she was close-hauled to the wind and she was tearing along at a splendid pace, throwing the water white and wide, but the Surprise, coming up to leeward, had had to ease off her sheets not to pass too fast. Stephen came running up in the black coat and apron he wore in action, and the contrast between the drying blood on the dusty blackness and his shining face was particularly striking.