'A point forrard of the beam, sir.'
Drinkwater hesitated. Then he saw it, a pole surmounted by a wooden cage over which he could just make out a faint, horizontal blur. The blur was, he knew, a huge wooden fish.
'Very well, Mr Easton, a bearing if you please and note in your log.'
A quarter of an hour later the Gunfleet beacon was obliterated astern by more rain and as night came on the wind increased.
By midnight the gale was at its height and the squadron scattered. Drinkwater had brought Virago to an anchor, veering away two full cables secured end to end. For although they were clear of the longshoals that run into the mouth of the Thames they had yet to negotiate the Gabbards and the Galloper and the Shipwash banks, out in the howling blackness to leeward.
The fatigue and anxiety of the night seemed heightened by his fever and he seemed possessed of a remarkable energy that he knew he would pay dearly for later, but he hounded his officers and took frequent casts of the lead to see whether their anchor was dragging. At six bells in the middle watch the atmosphere cleared and they were rewarded by a glimpse of the lights of the floating alarm vessel[1] at the Sunk. With relief he went below, collapsing across his cot in his wet boat cloak, his feet stuck out behind him still in their shoes. Only his hat rolled off his head and into a damp corner beneath a carronade slide.
Lieutenant Rogers relieved Mr Trussel at four in the morning.
'Wind's abating, sir,' added Trussel after handing the deck over to the lieutenant.
'Yes.'
'And veering a touch. Captain said to call him if it veered, sir.'
'Very well.' Rogers wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slipped the pewter mug that was now empty of coffee into the bottom shelf of the binnacle. He looked up at the dark streamer of the masthead pendant, then down at the oscillating compass. The wind was indeed veering.
'Mr Q!'
'Sir?'
'Pass word to the Captain that the wind's veering, north west a half west and easing a touch, I fancy.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
The cloud was clearing to windward and a few stars were visible. Rogers crossed the deck to look at the traverse board then hailed the masthead to see if anything was visible from there.
Drinkwater arrived on deck five minutes later. It had taken him a great effort to urge his aching and stiffened limbs to obey him.
'Morning sir.'
'Mornin',' Drinkwater grunted, 'any sign of the commodore or the Sunk alarm vessel?'
'No sign of the commodore but the Sunk's still in sight. She's held to her anchor.'
'Very well. Wind's easing ain't it?'
'Aye, 'tis dropping all the time.'
'Turn the hands up then, we'll prepare to weigh.'
Drinkwater walked aft and placed his hands on the caned taffrail, drawing gulps of fresh air into his lungs and seeking in vain some invigoration from the dawn. Around him the ship came to life. The flog of topsails being cast loose and sheeted home, the dull thud of windlass bars being shipped. There was no fiddler aboard Virago and the men set up a low chant as they began to heave the barrels round to a clunking of pawls. The cable came in very slowly.
They had anchored north east of the Sunk, under the partial shelter of the Shipwash Sand and Virago rolled as her head was pulled round to her anchor. Already a faint lightening of the sky was perceptible to the east. Drinkwater shook the last of the sleep from him and turned forward.
'Forrard there, how does she lead?'
'Two points to larboard, sir, and coming to it.' Matchett's voice came back to him from the fo'c's'le. Drinkwater drummed his fingers on the poop rail.
'Up and down, sir.'
'Anchor's aweigh!'
'Topsail halliards, away lively there… haul away larboard braces, lively now! Ease away that starboard mainbrace damn you…!' The backed topsails filled with wind even before their yards had reached their proper elevation. Virago began to make a stern board.
'Foretopmast staysail, aback to larboard Mr Matchett.' The ship began to swing. 'Helm a-lee!'
'Helium's a-leek, zur.'
'Larboard tack, Mr Rogers, course nor' nor' east.'
He left Rogers to haul the yards again and steady Virago on her new course. They would be safely anchored in Yarmouth Roads before another midnight had passed. Around him the noises of the ship, the clatter of blocks, the grind of the rudder, the flog of canvas and creak of parrels, told him Rogers was steadying Virago on her northward course. He wondered how the other members of the squadron had fared during the night and considered that 'commodore' Martin might be an anxious and exasperated man this morning. The thought amused him, although it was immediately countered by the image of Martin and the other ships sitting in Yarmouth Roads awaiting the arrival of Virago.
The ship heeled and beneath him the wake began to bubble out from under her stern as she gathered headway. Instinctively he threw his weight on one hip, then turned and began pacing the windward side of the poop. The afterguard padded aft and slackened the spanker brails, four men swigging the clew out to the end of the long boom by the double outhauls.
'Course, nor' nor' east, sir.'
'Very well, Sam. You have the deck, carry on.'
Rogers called Matchett to pipe up hammocks. The routine of Virago's day had begun in earnest. Drinkwater walked forward again and halted by the larboard mizzen rigging at the break of the poop. He searched for a glimpse of Orfordness lighthouse but his attention was suddenly attracted by something else, an irregularity in the almost indistinguishable meeting of sea and sky to the north of them. He fished in his tail pocket for the Dolland glass.
'Mr Rogers!'
'Sir?'
'What d'you make of those sails,' said Drinkwater without lowering his glass, 'there, half a point on the larboard bow?'
Rogers lifted his own glass and was silent for a moment. 'High peaks,' he muttered, 'could be bawleys out of Harwich, but not one of the squadron, if that's what you're thinking.'
'That ain't what I'm thinking Sam. Take another look, a good long look.'
Rogers whistled. One of the approaching sails had altered course, slightly more to the east and they were both growing larger by the second.
'Luggers, by God!'
'And if I'm not mistaken they're in chase, Sam. French chasse-marées taking us for a fat wallowing merchantman. I'll wager they've been lying under the Ness all night.'
'They'll eat the logline off this tub, God damn it, and be chock full of men.'
'And as handy as yachts', added Drinkwater, remembering the two stern chasers in his cabin and his untried crew. He would be compelled to fight for he could not outrun such swift enemies.
'Wear ship, Sam, upon the instant. Don't be silly man, we're no match for two Dunkirkers, we'll make the tail of the bank and beat up for Harwich.'
Rogers shut his gaping mouth and turned to bawl abusively at the hands milling in the waist as they carried the hammocks up and stowed them in the nettings. The first lieutenant scattered them like a fox among chickens.
Drinkwater considered his situation. To stand on would invite being out-manoeuvred, while by running he would not only have his longest range guns bearing on the enemy, but might entice the luggers close enough to pound them with his carronades. If he could outrun them long enough to make up for the Sunk and Harwich they might abandon the chase, privateers were unwilling to fight if the odds were too great and there was a guardship in Harwich harbour.