A Brig of War by Richard Woodman Page A

strop.’
    ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
    Drinkwater looked over the forward edge of the top as he waited for the men to finish their tasks. The chafing was worse. They had very little time before the heavy yard crashed below. He looked down. Rogers’s party was a confused huddle of men pulling, cutting and struggling but he could see the dull line of the starboard yardarm. He wondered what damage it had done in its descent, at least it was the smaller section and devoid of the heavy gear attached to the slings.
    ‘Here, sir,’ Stokeley had the strop and Tregembo the block. Drinkwater began to ease himself over the rim of the platform. ‘Here zur, I’ll do that,’ said Tregembo indignantly. Drinkwater ignored him. It was his job. Maybe if he had joined the ship weeks before she sailed, as a good first lieutenant should, he would have spotted the defect in the spar. It had not been fair to suppose that Griffiths could do the work as efficiently as himself. Tonight he would pay Providence the debt he owed for that extra time with Elizabeth.
    He lowered his weight gently on to the moving spar, gradually transferring his grip. He had hold of the lower jeers block and the movement of the whole thing was alarming now that his life depended on it. Reaching up he took the end of the strop and began to crouch, easing himself down until he was astride the yard, his legs wrapped round it. He let go of the jeers block to have both hands for the strop. His whole body was now transferred to the yard at its alarmingly cockbilled angle. Now the movement was exaggerated, swinging him from side to side with a twitch at the end of each oscillation that threatened to throw him off.
    It gave a sudden violent jerk. Drinkwater flung his arms about the spar, retaining sufficient presence of mind not to let go of the strop. For a second the absence of further movement convinced him he was in wild descent.
    Then from the deck came a hail: ‘End’s secure, sir!’ The jerk had been Lestock’s men bowsing the lower end down, unable to see their first lieutenant clinging to its upper extremity. Drinkwater passed the strop round the spar, pulled it tight through its own part and held it up. Stokeley grabbed it and, as Drinkwater scrambled back into the top, secured the block to it. Tregembo had rove the rope through the block and secured one end round the topmast. All that remained to do was to reeve the hauling part through another vacant block. Tregembo had brought a buntline block and shackled it to give a clear lead to the deck and it was the work of only a few minutes to prepare their extempore double whip.
    Mr Quilhampton reappeared. ‘Mr Rogers has secured the starboard piece, sir.’
    ‘Right. All go below. I’ll remain here. Have Mr Lestock man the jeers and beg to lower handsomely on them. Desire him to take the weight on this manila inch. Make sure he has caught a turn with it.’
    ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
    Drinkwater watched them go, leaning back against the topmast doubling, feeling hot and mad as the gale howled about him. His mouth was dry and he knew he would start shaking from the reaction of his exertions. Thank God they had a good man at the helm, the ship had not slewed from her course once. He must remember to find out who it was; the fellow was deserving of praise.
    ‘Ready masthead there!’ came the shout from below.
    ‘Set tight the whip!’ he bawled back, lowering himself on to his belly to watch progress. The strop drew tight.
    ‘Ee-ease the jeers!’
    The platform beneath him trembled. As Hellebore pitched forward and scended the yard moved down a foot, forward six inches. As the wave passed under her the bowsprit stabbed at the sky and the spar swung aft, hitting the mast with a judder. Damn! He should have thought of that! They needed a downhaul.
    ‘Belay there! ‘Vast lowering!’ He peered down while the yard swung forward and back. Again the jarring shot through his body. Then he had it. He reached down. One of the