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The Captain seemed to stiffen briefly and then The |
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Lieutenant Peter Fowler turned up the collar of his heavy watch coat as the cold wind whipped spray viciously against his face. He strolled to the starboard side of the HMS Swift and brought his telescope to his eye, to steal a final glance at their quarry, before darkness descended totally and left them alone in its ebony embrace. The French frigate was still there, cutting through the swells like a knife and keeping the distance constant between them. Fowler looked up at the top gallants and sighed, the sails glistened as the soaked material caught the fading sunlight but their beauty didn’t help them on their desperate chase. |
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“She’s still there, Captain,” he shouted over the clamour of activity on deck. One of His Majesty’s frigates was always a hive of activity as crew raised and shortened sails in answer to the changing weather, set rigging or practised gun drill; anything to keep their 200 complement busy on the long days at sea. |
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Today, however there was more activity than normal. The Captain had ordered every piece of surplus baggage to be thrown over the side once night had fallen. Men lined the deck with chairs, tables - even the Captain’s desk he noted – and anything not bolted to the floor ready to cast the items overboard, before running to repeat the process. Fowler raised an eyebrow when he saw the surgeon’s, blood-stained table being hacked into pieces small enough to fit through the door and out onto the deck. |
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“Thank you, Mister Fowler,” the Captain replied in his gruff, deep voice. “Carry on, Mister Winfield.” |
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The second lieutenant delayed an instant and the Captain glared at him. The man paled and then ran to the taffrail, shouting orders through his speaking tube. |
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“He is young yet,” Lieutenant Fowler came to stand beside the Captain and nodded at the activity below. “It is an unusual order,” he ventured, watching his superior for any indication of his stormy temper. |
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