An Eye of the Fleet (27 page)

The time passed for Drinkwater in a daze. Outwardly he carried out his duties with his customary efficiency. When the roll was called he answered for Sharples having been killed at the mill.

When Threddle's name was called his mouth clamped shut. His eyes swivelled to Morris. The enigmatic smile still played around the mouth of his adversary but Morris said nothing.

Strain and fatigue continued to play havoc with Drinkwater's nerves as the day wore on until, when the news of the arrival
of
La Creole
on the bar spread rapidly through the ship, he seemed to emerge from a tunnel. He had found his second wind. Morris was just Morris, an evil to be endured; Achilles had been a brief and colourful intrusion into his life and was so no more; Cranston was dead, just that, dead; and Threddle . . . Threddle was discharged dead too, killed in action at the mill . . . or so the ship's books said . . .

It was only when he received the summons to attend the Captain, however, that his mind received the final jerk that returned him to sanity. As he entered the cabin in company with all the other officers he found himself standing next to Morris. It came to him then, the awful truth, the fact that his numbed mind had automatically excluded in its pain . . .

Sharples had not died in action. Sharples had been shot down in cold blood under the cover of action. And the man next to him had done it . . .

‘Well, gentlemen . . .' Hope looked round the ring of tired yet expectant faces. They were all here. The welcome features of Devaux and Wheeler, the careworn, lined face of old Blackmore, the younger Keene and youthful Skelton. Behind the commissioned officers the mature warrant officers; the gunner, the bosun and the carpenter, and the eager yet apprehensive faces of his midshipmen and master's mates.

‘Well gentlemen, it seems our friend has returned, I suspect with reinforcements. I imagine he will attempt a cutting out so I am not intending to warp the ship round. If we see
La Creole
approaching then we shall have to do so and for that eventuality the spring is already rigged, but I do not foresee this. The wind during the night will be offshore and therefore favour an attack by boats. I have a mind to bait a trap and for that purpose have summoned you all here . . . Moonset is about two o'clock. We may, therefore, expect his boats soon after in order that, having taken us,' here Hope looked round and swept what he believed to be a sardonically inspiring grin around the company,' . . . he may carry the
terral
to sea . . .'

A little shuffle among the officers indicated a stirring of interest. Hope breathed a silent sigh of relief. ‘Now, gentlemen, this is what I intend that we should do . . .'

Cyclops
settled down to await the expected attack. The hands had been fed and the galley fire extinguished. The men
had been told off to their stations and the most elaborate dispositions made. Apart from a watch the hands were, for the time being, ordered to rest on their arms.

Anxious to stimulate the morale of his crew Hope had accepted several suggestions for improvisation in the frigate's defence. Of these the best had been suggested by Wheeler.
Cyclops
's two largest boats were hoisted by the yardarm tackles fitted to the extremities of the fore and main yards. By this means the boats were slung outboard of, and higher than, the frigate's sides. In each boat a party of the ship's best marksmen lay hidden, awaiting the order to open fire upon the anticipated boarders as they scrambled up
Cyclops
's sides.

The lower deck gunports were all secured and the hands issued with small arms.

An hour after moonset the faint chuckle of water under a boat's bow was heard from downstream. Peering intently from the stern cabin windows Devaux touched Hope's arm.

‘Here they come, sir,' he whispered. He turned to pass word forward but Hope held him back. ‘Good luck Mr Devaux . . .' Hope's voice cracked with age and emotion. Devaux smiled in the darkness. ‘Good luck to you, sir,' he replied warmly.

The first lieutenant slipped through into the gundeck, passing a whispered warning to the men stationed there. Emerging on to the upper deck he ordered the men to lie down. In a crouching position he moved up one side and down the other. At each post he found the men waiting eagerly.

Drinkwater was one of the party waiting in the forward gundeck. Commanded by Lieutenant Skelton their task was to counter attack once the enemy had boarded in the manner that had been so successfully used in the previous action. Up on the fo'c's'le O'Malley, the Irish cook, scraped a melancholy air on his fiddle and several men sang quietly or chatted in low voices as might be expected from a casually maintained anchor watch . . .

The boats came alongside at several points. Faint grunts and bumps told where they secured. Devaux waited. A hand reached over the rail and grasped the hammock netting, another followed. One groped upwards and a moment later a knife was sawing through the boarding netting, another followed. Another hand came over the opposite rail. It was followed by a head.

‘Now!' bellowed Devaux, expelling his pent up breath in one
mighty roar that was taken up by the waiting seamen. The tension burst from them in smoke, flame and destruction. Fifty or sixty twelve pound cannon balls were dropped overside to plummet down through the bottoms of
La Creole
's boats. From her own boats, suspended high above,
Cyclops
's marksmen opened a lethal fire on the invaders. This desperate refinement quickly cleared the frigate's sides.

From the deck too a withering fire was poured down at the hapless privateersmen now struggling in the river . . .

Aft the attacks had been driven off with similar success. Hope looked round. He was suddenly aware that his ship was swinging, her head falling off from pointing up river. Someone forward had cut
Cyclops
's cable and instinct prompted Hope to stare over the stern, searching in the darkness for the spring. Shouting anxiously for Blackmore to get sail on the ship he sprung himself for the wheel in case the spring parted and the ship was in danger of going aground.

Forward the rebels had had more success than the mere severing of the frigate's cable. Having driven a boat in under
Cyclops
's figurehead where access was comparatively easy via the bowsprit rigging and the foretack bumpkins, twenty or thirty men had gained access to the deck under an enterprising officer and a fierce hand to hand engagement now took place. Several of the privateersmen were engaged in turning one of the bow chasers inboard along the length of
Cyclops
.

The situation became critical and Devaux shouted for Skelton's reserve.

Hearing the shouts and screams from above Lieutenant Skelton was already on his way, leading the counter attackers out of the stygian gloom of the gundeck. Behind him Drinkwater drew his dirk and followed.

On the fo'c's'le the French privateer officer was achieving a measure of success. His men had swung the starboard bow chaser round and were preparing to fire it. He was determined to destroy the British frigate if he could not take her. If he could force her aground and fire her . . . already she was head downstream . . . it occurred to him that she should be broadside on . . .

He turned to shout orders to two men remaining in the boat to bring combustibles on board, then he swung round to rally his men for a final attempt to secure the upper deck in the wake
of the bow chaser's discharge.

A British lieutenant appeared in front of him leading a fresh body of men that had appeared from nowhere. The lieutenant slashed at the Frenchman but before Skelton's blade even started its downward path the latter executed a swift and fatal lunge.

‘
Hela
!' he shouted. Skelton reeled backwards carrying with him two seamen coming up behind. The French officer's eyes gleamed in triumph and he turned to order his men to discharge the cannon.

‘
Tirez
!' A thin youth confronted him. The Frenchman grinned maliciously at the dirk his opponent held. He extended his sword arm. Drinkwater waited for the lunge but the other recovered and the two stood for a second eyeing each other. The Frenchman's experience weighed the midshipman . . . he lunged.

Skelton's blood flowed freely across the deck. The French officer slipped as Drinkwater half turned to avoid the blade. The sword point, raised involuntarily by his opponent's loss of balance, caught his cheek and ripped upwards, deflected out of the flesh by the cheekbone. Drinkwater had gone icy cold in that heart-beat of suspension, he already knew he had his man as his fencer's instinct told him the other was losing his balance. Now the sting of the wound unleashed a sudden fury in him. He stabbed blindly and savagely, giving the thrust impetus by the full weight of his body. The dirk passed under the man's bicep and buried itself in his shoulder, piercing the right lung. The Frenchman staggered back, recovering his balance too late, dropping his sword, blood pouring from his wound.

Drinkwater flung away the dirk and grabbed the fallen sword. It leapt in his hand, balanced exquisitely on the lower phalange of his forefinger. He threw himself into the fight screaming encouragement to the seamen struggling for possession of the deck.

In twenty minutes it was over. By then
Cyclops
had brought up to her spring and Drinkwater, the only officer left standing forward was joined by Devaux and they began securing the prisoners . . .

Instead of travelling slowly downstream beam on, the frigate's spring had the effect of re-anchoring her by the stern
since it was led out of an after gun port and secured to the anchor cable below the cut. This fortuitous circumstance permitted Hope to set the topsails so that the vessel strained at her anchor as the sails bellied out to the
terral
.

Drinkwater hurried aft touching his forehead.

‘All the boarders secured, sir, what orders?'

Hope looked astern. He could make out the splashes of men struggling in the water and the taut spring rising dripping with water from the tension on it.

Devaux hurried up. ‘Get those boats cut down and you, Drinkwater, get the spring cut . . .'

The two ran off, ‘Mr Blackmore!'

‘Sir?'

‘Take the conn, have a man in the chains and a quartermaster back at the wheel. Pass word to the leadsman that I want the soundings
quietly
.' Hope emphasised the last word as Keene came up. ‘Work round the deck Mr Keene, not a word from anyone . . . anyone do you understand?'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater ran up again. ‘Spring cut, sir.' He reported.

‘Well done, Mister.' Hope rubbed his hands gleefully, like a schoolboy contemplating a prank. ‘I'm going out after that fella, Mister Drinkwater,' he confided, pointing ahead to somewhere in the darkness where
La Creole
awaited them. ‘She'll be expecting us under her cutting out party—we'll give 'em a surprise, eh cully?' Hope grinned.

‘Aye, aye, sir!'

‘Now run off and find Devaux and tell him to man the starboard battery and have topmen aloft . . . oh, and men at the braces . . .' Drinkwater ran off with his message.

Blackmore was letting the wind and current take the frigate downstream, trusting that the run of the water would serve her best. As the ship cleared the wooded headlands he adjusted the course and trimmed the yards. Drinkwater was ordered forward to keep a lookout for
La Creole
.

He strained his eyes into the night. Small circles danced in his vision. He elevated his glance a little from the horizon and immediately, on the periphery of his retina a darker spot appeared to starboard. He clapped the battered glass to his eye.

It was
La Creole
and at anchor too!

He raced aft: ‘She's two points to starboard, sir, and at
anchor!'

‘Very well, Mr Drinkwater:' then to Blackmore, ‘starboard a point.'

Blackmore's voice answered, ‘Starboard a point, sir. By my reckoning you are just clear of the bar . . .'

‘Very well. Mr Drinkwater, get a cable on the second bower!'

Cyclops
slipped seawards.
La Creole
was just visible against the false dawn. Hope intended to cross
La Creole
's stern, rake her and put his helm down. As he turned to starboard and ran alongside the enemy ship he would anchor. It was his last anchor, except for the light kedge and it was a gamble. He explained to his principal officers what he intended . . .

Drinkwater found two bosun's mates and a party of tired seamen hauling an eight-inch rope up to the ring on the second bower. The two ships were closing fast.

‘Hurry it up there,' he hissed between clenched teeth. The men looked up at him sullenly. After what seemed an interminable delay the cable was secured.

Returning to report the anchor ready Drinkwater passed the prisoners. In the haste they had been trussed up to the foremast bitts and a sudden thought occurred to him. If these men shouted a warning,
Cyclops
's advantage would be lost. Then another idea came to him.

He ordered the marine sentries to herd them below, all of them except the French officer who lay groaning on the deck. Drinkwater still had the man's sword in his hand. He cut the rope securing the man to the bitts.

‘Up mister!' he ordered.

‘
Merde
,' growled the man.

Drinkwater pointed the sword at his throat: ‘Up!'

The man rose reluctantly to his feet, swaying with dizziness. The midshipmen prodded him aft, he ordered the last marine to go below to slit the throat of the first man that so much as squealed. Afterwards his own ruthless barbarity surprised him but at the time it seemed the only logical thing to do under the uncompromising prompting of a desire to survive.

He arrived on the quarterdeck. ‘What the devil?' queried a startled Hope, to be reassured by a sight of his own midshipman, a drawn sword in his hand, behind the Frenchman.