THE FLYING SQUADRON
Mariner’s Library Fiction Classics
STERLING HAYDEN
Voyage: A Novel of 1896
BJORN LARSSON
The Celtic Ring
SAM LLEWELLYN
The Shadow in the Sands
RICHARD WOODMAN
The Darkening Sea
Endangered Species
Wager
The Nathaniel Drinkwater Novels:
The Bomb Vessel
The Corvette
1805
Baltic Mission
In Distant Waters
A Private Revenge
Under False Colours
The Flying Squadron
Beneath the Aurora
The Shadow of the Eagle
Ebb Tide
THE FLYING SQUADRON
Richard Woodman
First U.S. edition published 1999
by Sheridan House Inc.
145 Palisade Street
Dobbs Ferry, New York 10522
Copyright © 1992 by Richard Woodman
Reprinted 2000
First published in Great Britain 1992 by
John Murray (Publishers) Ltd
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing
of Sheridan House.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Woodman, Richard, 1944-
The flying squadron / Richard Woodman. — 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm — (Mariner’s library fiction classics)
ISBN 1-57409-077-1 (alk. paper)
1. Drinkwater, Nathaniel (Fictitious character) Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century Fiction. 3. United States-History—War of 1812 Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.
PR6071.0618F59 1999
823’.914—dc21
99-33915
CIP
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 1-57409-077-1
Contents
PART ONE: HAWKS AND DOVES
Cawsand Bay
1 The King’s Messenger
2 Roast Pork and Politics
3 A Capital Shot
4 The Paineite
5 An Invitation
6 The Widow Shaw
7 A Riot in the Blood
8 The Master Commandant
9 After the Fall
10 The Parthian Shot
PART TWO: THE COMMODORE
Gantley Hall
11 A Crossing of Rubicons
12 David and Goliath
13 The Intruder
14 Cry Havoc . . .
15 The Whaler
PART THREE: A FURIOUS ASIDE
The Admiralty
16 The Dogs of War
17 The Flying Squadron
The Puppet-master
Author’s Note
PART ONE
Hawks and Doves
‘You will have to fight the English again . . .’
NAPOLEON
Cawsand Bay
August 1811
The knock at the door woke Lieutenant Frey with a start. His neglected book slid to the deck with a thud. The air in the wardroom was stiflingly soporific and he had dozed off, only to be woken moments later with a headache and a foul taste in his mouth.
‘Yes?’ Frey’s tone was querulous; he was irritated by the indifference of his messmates, especially that of Mr Metcalfe.
‘Beg pardon, sir.’ Midshipman Belchambers peered into the candle-lit gloom and fixed his eyes on the copy of The Times behind which Mr Metcalfe, the first lieutenant, was presumed to be. He coughed to gain Mr Metcalfe’s attention, but no flicker of life came from the newspaper, despite the two hands clearly holding it up before the senior officer’s face.
Frey rubbed his eyes and sought vainly for a drop of wine in his glass to rinse his mouth.
‘Sir . . .’, Belchambers persisted urgently, continuing to address the impassive presence of Mr Metcalfe.
‘What the devil is it?’ snapped Frey, running a finger round the inside of his stock.
Relieved, Belchambers shifted his attention to the third lieutenant. ‘Cap’n’s gig’s approaching, sir.’
Glaring at the newspaper, Frey rose, his fingers settling his neck linen. He kicked back his chair so that it scraped the deck with an intrusive noise, though it failed to stir the indifference of his colleagues. Piqued, he reached for coat and hat.
‘Very well,’ he said, dismissing Belchambers, ‘I’ll be up directly.’
From the doorway, as he drew on his coat, Frey regarded his colleagues in their post-prandial disorder.
Despite the bull’s eyes, the skylight shaft and the yellow glow of the table candelabra, the wardroom was as ill-lit as it was stuffy. At the head of the long table, leaning back against the rudder trunking, Mr Metcalfe remained inscrutable behind his newspaper. Mr Moncrieff, the marine officer, was slumped in his chair, his pomaded head thrown back, his mouth open and his eyes shut in an uncharacteristically inelegant posture.
Ignoring the midshipman’s intrusion, the master, his clay pipe adding to the foul air, continued playing cards with the surgeon. He laid a card with a snap and scooped the trick.
‘Trumps, by God,’ grumbled Mr Pym, staring down at his own meagre hand.
Wyatt, the master, grinned diabolically through wreaths of puffed smoke.
Frey looked in vain for Mr Gordon, but the second lieutenant had retired to his cabin and only Wagstaff, the mess-servant, reacted to Frey’s exasperated surveillance, pausing expectantly in his slovenly shuffling as though awaiting rebuke or instruction. Frey noticed that there was little to choose between his filthy apron and the stained drapery which adorned the table. With an expression of mild disgust Mr Frey abandoned this scene of genteel squalor with something like relief, and retreated to the deck, acknowledging the perfunctory salutes of the marine sentries en route.
Emerging into the fresh air he cast a quick look about him. His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Patrician lay at anchor in Cawsand Bay. The high blue arch of the sky was gradually darkening in the east behind the jagged, listing outline of the Mewstone. The last rays of the setting sun fanned out over the high land behind Cawsand village. Already the stone houses and the fish-drying sheds were indistinct as the shadow of the land crept out across the water. The still depths of the bay turned a mysterious green, disturbed only by the occasional plop of a jumping mullet and a low swell which rolled round Penlee Point, forming an eddy about the Draystone.
In contrast to the stifling air below, the deck was already touched with the chill of the coming night and Frey paused a moment, drinking in the pure tranquillity of the evening.
‘Boat ’hoy!’
The bellow of the quarterdeck sentry recalled him to his duty. He settled his hat on his head and walked to the ship’s side.
‘Patrician!’
The answering hail brought some measure of satisfaction to Mr Frey. The stark, shouted syllables of the ship’s name meant the captain was aboard the gig and, in Frey’s opinion, the captain’s presence could not occur soon enough.
More marines, the side-boys and duty bosun’s mates were running aft to take their stations. Tweaking the sennit-covered man-ropes so they hung handily down the frigate’s ample tumble-home on either side of the steps, Belchambers raised two fingers to his hat-brim.
‘Ship’s side manned, sir; Cap’n coming aboard.’
‘Very well, Mr Belchambers.’
Frey watched the distinctive blue and white paintwork of the
gig; the oars rose and fell in perfect unison. As the oarsmen leaned back, the bow of the boat lifted a trifle and Frey caught sight of Captain Drinkwater alongside the coxswain. There was another figure too, a civilian by the look of his garb. Was this the mysterious passenger for whom, it had been intimated, they were waiting?
A second boat crabbed out in the gig’s wake. She was larger, with an untidy clutter of gear in her waist and a consequently less synchronous movement of her oars. Midshipman Porter had a less sure hand upon the tiller of the overloaded launch as it visibly struggled towards them. Frey rightly concluded it had left Dock Town hard well in advance of the gig and had been overtaken.
He stood back in his place as the gig ran alongside and a moment later, as the shrilling of the pipes pierced the peaceful stillness, Frey touched the fore-cock of his hat and Captain Drinkwater hove himself to the deck.
For a moment, as the pipes completed their ritual shrieking, Drinkwater stood at the salute, his eyes swiftly taking in the details of the deck. At last the tremulous echoes waned and faded.
‘Evenin’, Mr Frey.’
‘Evening, sir.’
Drinkwater stood aside and put out a hand.
‘Come, sir,’ he called back to the civilian in the boat who stared apprehensively upwards. ‘Clasp the ropes and walk up the ship’s side. ’Tis quite simple.’
Frey suppressed a smile as Drinkwater raised his left eyebrow a trifle. The side party waited patiently while the man-ropes jerked and a young man, elegantly dressed in grey, finally hauled himself breathlessly on to the deck. Frey regarded the stranger with interest and a little wonder. The cut of the coat was so obviously fashionable that it was difficult not to assume the newcomer was a fop. Aware of the curiosity aroused by the contrast between the somewhat grubby informality of Frey’s undress uniform coat and the attire of his companion, Drinkwater gave his guest a moment to recover his wind and gape about. Turning to the third lieutenant, Drinkwater asked, ‘First Lieutenant aboard, Mr Frey?’
‘Here, sir.’
Metcalfe materialized by magic, as if he had been there all along but chose that precise moment to forsake invisibility.
‘We’ll get under weigh the moment the wind serves.’
Metcalfe cast his eyes aloft and turned nonchalantly on his heels, his whole demeanour indicating the fact that it was a flat calm. ‘Aye, aye, sir . . . when the wind serves.’
Frey, already irritated by the first lieutenant’s idiosyncratic detachment, watched Captain Drinkwater’s reaction to this piece of studied insolence with interest and anxiety.
‘You take my meaning, Mr Metcalfe?’ There was the hint of an edge to Drinkwater’s voice.
Metcalfe completed his slow gyration and met the cool appraisal of his new commander with an inclination of his head.
‘Perfectly, sir. May I remind you the ship still wants thirty-seven men to complete her establishment. The watch-bill . . .’
‘Then, sir,’ snapped Drinkwater with a false formality, ‘you may take a party ashore when the launch is discharged and see what the stews of Dock Town will yield up.’
Frey noted the irritation in Drinkwater’s tone as he turned back to the young man in grey.
‘Mr Vansittart, please allow me to conduct you below, your dunnage and servants will come aboard from the launch directly . . .’
Frey nodded dismissal to the side party and exchanged glances with Midshipman Belchambers. They were, with Mr Comley the boatswain and Mr Maggs the gunner, the only officers remaining from Patrician’s last commission. Despite the drafts from the guardships at Plymouth and Portsmouth, the pickings of the Impress Service sent them by the Regulating Officers in the West Country and the sweepings of their own hot-press, they remained short of men.
Patrician had been swinging at a buoy in the Hamoaze when Captain Drinkwater had first come aboard and read his commission to the assembled ship’s company. Her officers had regarded with distaste the mixture of hedge-sleeping vagrants, pallid gaolbirds, lumpish yokels and under-nourished quota-men who formed too large a proportion of the people. Afterwards Lieutenant Gordon had spoken for them all: ‘ ’Tis hands of ability we want, seamen, for God’s sake,’ Gordon had continued despairingly, ‘not mere numbers to fill slots in a watch-bill.’
‘That’s all you’re going to get,’ said Pym the surgeon, having inspected them for lice, the lues, ruptures and lesser horrors, adding with some relish, ‘a first lieutenant who slept in the ship would be an advantage . . .’
It was not, Frey thought, as Drinkwater and the grey-coated gentleman disappeared below, a very propitious start to the new commission. An absentee first luff, a crew of farm hands and footpads, with what looked like a diplomatic mission, did not augur well for the future. Mr Metcalfe had appeared eventually, in time to throw his weight about while they had completed rigging, warped alongside the hulk and taken in powder and shot. He had a talent, Frey had observed as they dropped down to the anchorage at Cawsand, for a dangerous inconsistency which threatened to set the ship on its ears and kept its unsettled, ignorant and inexpert company in a constant state of nerves.
Mr Metcalfe was of the opinion efficiency manifested itself in proportion to the number of officers disposed about the deck and the orders given. He believed any transgression or failure should be corrected, not by instruction, but by abuse and punishment. Tactful attempts by the mild and sensitive David Gordon to point out the folly of this procedure brought down the wrath of Mr Metcalfe on the unfortunate head of the second lieutenant.
Out of Metcalfe’s hearing Moncrieff had shrewdly observed it a matter of prudence to ‘keep the weather gauge of Mr Metcalfe. He wants at least one of you Johnnies betwixt himself and trouble.’ And failing to see the light of any comprehension in his messmates’ eyes in the aftermath of Metcalfe’s humiliation of Gordon, he had added, ‘to keep his own yard-arm clear, d’you see, and the smell of himself sweet in his own nostrils.’
The quaintness of Moncrieff’s assertion had imprinted itself on the minds of his listeners and Mr Wyatt had affirmed the opinion as sound by a loud and conspicuous hawking into the cuspidor.
Sadly, the first lieutenant had had his way, for the mysteries of ‘official business’ had kept Captain Drinkwater ashore almost continuously until this evening and Frey had not enjoyed his commander’s absence.
‘Frey?’ The peremptory and haughty tone of Metcalfe’s voice cut aptly into Frey’s train of thought.
‘Sir?’ He looked round.
‘You heard the Captain, Frey. You and Belchambers are to take the launch and scour the town for seamen. Try the village there,’ Metcalfe said, in his arch tone, nodding at Cawsand where the first faint lights were beginning to show in the cottage windows.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Frey’s acknowledgement was flat, formal and expressionless. There were no seamen to be had in Cawsand, nor within a night’s march into Cornwall. They might pick up a few drink-sodden wretches in the dens of Dock Town, but he was not optimistic and was disappointed in Drinkwater’s suggestion that anything practical might be achieved. He was about to walk away when Metcalfe spoke again.
‘And Frey . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘Let me know’, Metcalfe said with a pained and put-upon look, ‘when the Captain is coming aboard next time.’
‘The midshipman reported the boat’s approach to you in the wardroom.’
‘Don’t be insolent, Frey, you don’t have the charm for it and it ill befits you.’
Frey bit off a hot retort and held his tongue, though he was quite unable to stop the colour mounting to his cheeks. Beyond Metcalfe’s shoulder he could see Captain Drinkwater had returned to the quarterdeck.
‘I know you served in the ship’s last commission,’ Metcalfe went on, oblivious of the captain’s approach, ‘but it don’t signify with me, d’you see?’
‘Mr Frey.’ Drinkwater’s curt voice came as a relief to Frey.
‘Sir?’
Metcalfe swung round a
nd saw Drinkwater. ‘Ah, sir, I was just directing Mr Frey to take command of the press . . .’
‘I told you to deal with that, Mr Metcalfe. Mr Frey has another duty to perform.’
‘Indeed, sir, may I ask what?’
Drinkwater ignored Metcalfe, addressing Frey directly, over the head of his first lieutenant. ‘The launch has, in addition to Mr Vansittart’s personal effects and two servants, a large quantity of cabbages, Mr Frey. See they are got aboard and stowed carefully in nets. I want them exposed to the air.’
‘Cabbages, sir?’ said the first lieutenant, his face registering exaggerated astonishment, ‘Are they your personal stores?’
‘No, Mister,’ Drinkwater said, a note of asperity creeping into his voice, ‘they are for the ship’s company.’
The captain swung on his heel; Metcalfe stared after him until he was out of earshot.
‘Rum old devil, ain’t he, Mr Frey?’ and the remark shocked Frey for its shift of ground, betraying the inconsistency he had already noted in Metcalfe, but striking him now as deeper than mere pig-headedness.
Frey did his best to keep his voice non-committal. ‘Excuse me, sir, I’ve my duty to attend to.’
‘Ah, yes, the cabbages,’ Metcalfe said, as though the earlier invitation to complicity had never passed his lips. Lapsing into an almost absent tone he muttered, ‘Two servants, damme,’ then, raising his voice he bellowed, ‘Mr Belchambers! Lay aft here at the double!’
CHAPTER 1
August 1811
The King’s Messenger
Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater hauled himself up the companionway against the heel of the ship and stepped on to the quarterdeck. Clapping one hand to his hat he took a quick reef in his billowing cloak with the other and made his way into the partial shelter of the mizen rigging.
‘Morning, sir.’ The third lieutenant approached, touched the fore-cock of his hat and added, quite unnecessarily, ‘A stiff breeze, sir.’
The Flying Squadron Page 1
