‘Too little too late,’ grumbled Drinkwater, ‘and then David struck Goliath right betwixt the eyes . . .’
No further reference was necessary between the two men to conjure up in their minds the humiliations the despised Yankee navy had visited upon the proud might of the British. Before leaving Plymouth they had heard that Commodore Rodgers’ squadron had sailed from New York on the outbreak of war and, though the commodore had missed the West India convoy, his ships had chased the British frigate Belvidera and taken seven merchantmen before returning to Boston. Furthermore the Essex had seized the troop transport Alert and ten other ships. They knew, too, that the USS Constitution had escaped a British squadron by kedging in a calm, and finally, a week or two later, she had brought His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Guerrière to battle and hammered her into submission with devastating broadsides.
The latest edition of The Times they had brought with them from England was full of outrage and unanswered questions at this blow to Britannia’s prestige. The defeat of a single British frigate was considered incomprehensible, outweighed Wellington’s defeat of the French at Salamanca and obscured the news that Napoleon had entered Moscow. On their passage westward, Drinkwater had plenty of time to mull over the problems his discretionary orders had brought him. They contained a caution about single cruisers engaging ‘the unusually heavily armed and built frigates of the enemy’, and the desirability of ‘drawing them down upon a ship-of-the-line’, an admission of weakness that Drinkwater found shocking, if sensible, had a ship-of-the-line been within hail. Yet he had been under no illusion that with ‘so powerful a force as four frigates’ great things were expected of him, and was conscious that he sailed on detached service, not under the direct command of either Sawyer at Halifax or his successor, Sir John Borlase Warren, even then proceeding westwards like themselves.
Drinkwater had been close enough to Admiralty thinking in those last weeks before he sailed, when he cast about desperately for men to make up his ship’s company again and the Admiralty dithered, to know of their Lordships’ concern over Commodore Rodgers. The news that Rodgers had sailed with a squadron and had not dispersed his ships, added to the rumour that he had been after the West India convoy and had sailed almost within sight of the Scillies, had caused consternation at the Admiralty. To defend so many interests, the convoy routes from the West Indies, from India and the Baltic, the coastal trades and the distant fisheries and, by far the most important, the supply route to Lisbon and Wellington’s Anglo-Portuguese army, meant the deployment of a disproportionate number of ships spread over a quarter of the world’s oceans. Until Warren reached Halifax and organized some offensive operations with the inadequate resources in that theatre, Captain Drinkwater’s scratch squadron was the only force able to mount offensive operations against the Americans. With a thousand men-of-war at sea the irony of the situation was overwhelming.
Drinkwater had twice posted up to London for consultations, briefings and last-minute modifications to his orders. Suddenly the fact that he was a senior captain fortuitously on hand to combat the alarming situation was not so flattering. Imbued with a sense of urgency, the difficulties the Admiralty experienced in scraping together the exigous collection of ships they had at last dignified with the name of ‘flying squadron’ seemed trivial; Drinkwater was more concerned with his lack of manpower.
Now, however, after the most pressing problem had been at least partially solved, the Admiralty’s concern was understandable.
Byron of the Belvidera had reported well of the American squadron’s abilities, though outraged he had been attacked without a warning that hostilities had commenced. His escape he had attributed to superior sailing, not knowing the true cause was the explosion of a gun in which Rodgers himself had been wounded. Drinkwater did not share the overweening assumption of superiority nursed by young bloods like Tyrell and Thorowgood. He was too old or too honest with himself not to harbour doubts. Even ship for ship, his squadron matched against a squadron of Yankees could, he admitted privately to himself, be bested.
If Stewart was anything to go by, the American navy did not lack men of temper and determination, young men, too, men with experience of waging war in the Mediterranean, three thousand miles from their nearest base.
‘I think we should not regard the Americans with too much contempt, James,’ he said, in summation of his thoughts.
But any concurrence from Quilhampton was cut short by Belchambers hailing the deck again.
‘Hasty’s broken off the chase, sir!’
‘Where away is the chase herself?’ Drinkwater shouted.
‘Can’t see her, sir.’
‘He’s lost her, by God,’ snapped Quilhampton.
‘She’s fast, James,’ Drinkwater said consolingly, ‘don’t blame Tyrell; I tell you these damned Yankees are going to give us all a confounded headache before we’re through.’
Quilhampton’s sigh of resignation was audible even above the noise of the wind in the rigging, though whether it was submission to Drinkwater’s argument or his excuse for Tyrell’s failure, Drinkwater did not know. He felt a twinge of pity for his friend; perhaps Quilhampton himself should be in command of Patrician, perhaps he would make a better job of the task ahead . . .
‘Well,’ Quilhampton said, breaking into Drinkwater’s gloom, ‘at least we’ve got Warren taking over from that old fart Sawyer at Halifax.’
‘Yes. I knew Sir John once, when I was master’s mate in the cutter Kestrel. He had command of a flying squadron just after the outbreak of war with France . . .’
Odd he made that distinction between war with France and war with the United States, when he knew it was all part of the same, interminable struggle.
‘Warren had some of the finest frigates in the navy with him, the Flora, the Melampus, the Diamond under Sir Sydney Smith, Nagle’s Artois and the Arethusa under Pellew . . .’
‘And look what we’ve got,’ grumbled Quilhampton, watching Hasty approach. ‘Not a bloody Pellew in sight . . .’
The little sixth-rate bore down towards them. They could see the French ensign at Hasty’s gaff, before losing sight of it behind the bellying bunt of her topsails. As she surged past, to dodge under Sprite’s stern and come round again in Patrician’s wake, Captain Tyrell stood on her rail and raised his hat. Drinkwater acknowledged the salute and felt the wind nearly carry his own into the sea running in marbled green and white between the two frigates.
‘Too fast for us, sir!’ he heard Tyrell hail, ‘A privateer schooner by the look of her. She ran like smoke!’
Drinkwater waved his hat in acknowledgement. It was no more, nor anything less than he had expected.
‘The problem is, where to start,’ Drinkwater said, leaning over the chart. ‘It would be a simple matter if my orders were to blockade the Chesapeake . . .’
‘I’m damned if I know why they aren’t, sir,’ Quilhampton fizzed.
‘It isn’t government policy, James, at least not yet. Warren has a damnably difficult job, but he must maintain American supplies to the Tagus. Such a policy may, if we are lucky, promote sentiments of opposition to President Madison who has to maintain at least the illusion of not coming in on the French side in the peninsula. Warren will do his best to foment this discord by appealing to American mercantile avarice and issuing licences.’
‘I see,’ said Quilhampton, looking at his commander and thinking him unusually well-informed and then remembering the summonses, post-haste, to London from Plymouth. ‘On the other hand Yankee avarice will be fired by the vision of plundering our trade,’ protested Quilhampton, coming to terms with the enormous complexities Madison’s declaration of war had caused. ‘And we know the Americans have skilful seamen aplenty, men trained in the mercantile marine . . . ?’
‘Who know exactly where to intercept our trade.’ Drinkwater overrode Quilhampton’s exposition. ‘And our task is to sweep – an apt verb for a copying clerk to apply, if impossible to obey in practice – to
sweep the seas for American privateers . . .’
‘With a handful of elderly frigates that can’t catch a cold in a squall of rain, let alone a Baltimore schooner on or off the wind.’ Quilhampton’s protesting asides were meant to be signals of sympathy; they only served to irritate Drinkwater. Or was he annoyed because, all unbidden, his eyes were drawn to the legend Potomac on the chart. He fell silent and, watching his face, Quilhampton knew from experience that his expression presaged an idea which, in its turn, would father a plan. He shifted tack, moved to noises of positive encouragement.
‘Of course with good visibility we can form a line abreast to cover fifty miles of sea and if we conduct such a sweep, at a focal point of trade, a point at which these smart Yankee skippers will reason they can best intercept a homeward convoy . . .’
‘Yes, but which homeward convoy, James?’ Drinkwater snapped, his voice suddenly vibrant with determination.
‘Well, the West India trade, sir,’ Quilhampton said, riffling through the other charts on the table and drawing out a second one. ‘Now the hurricane season is over, I suggest – here.’ He stabbed his finger at the northern end of the Florida Strait, where the Gulf Stream favoured homeward ships, but where the channel between the coast and the Great Bahama Banks narrowed to less than sixty miles. ‘With the Sprite to increase our scouting front,’ went on Quilhampton, ‘we could almost completely cover the strait.’ He paused, then added, ‘Though I suppose we need her in the centre of the line to let slip like a hound and tie down any privateers until we can come up in the frigates.’ Pleased with himself, he looked up at Drinkwater.
The captain’s face was clouded and he was not looking at the chart of the Florida Strait. Instead he seemed abstracted, as though he had not been listening, obsessed with the chart of the Chesapeake. Quilhampton coughed discreetly, drawing attention to his presence, if not his expressed opinion. Drinkwater looked up.
‘Er . . . yes. Yes. I applaud your tactics, James, but not your strategy.’
‘Oh,’ Quilhampton bridled, puzzled.
‘No offence, but what would you do?’
‘As I say, the Florida Strait . . .’
‘No, no, forgive me, I haven’t made myself clear. Suppose, well perhaps for you it is not so much a supposition, for you may sympathize with my hypothesis, but suppose you are a bold, resolute American officer – an ambitious man, but not one who gained distinction in the quasi-war with France, or the Tripolitan adventure and, as a result, out of favour, denied a naval ship but, being still a man of influence, one who could command a letter-of-marque, perhaps a small squadron of them . . .’
‘It would make no difference . . .’
‘Bear with me, James,’ Drinkwater said tolerantly. ‘Now you know perfectly well that every other privateer commander will make his station either the Florida Strait, or the Windward Passage, or some other focal point to intercept the West India ships
‘Yes, but there’ll be rich enough pickings for all,’ insisted Quilhampton, knowing the way Drinkwater thought, ‘and it’ll rouse the sugar lobby, bring pressure to bear in Parliament and win the successful privateersman a reputation quicker perhaps than command of a Yankee frigate.’
‘D’you rest your case?’ Drinkwater asked drily.
Quilhampton blushed, aware that he had presumed on friendship at the cost of respect for rank.
‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘There’s no need for that; you’re my first lieutenant, such considerations must be encouraged, but think bigger, James. You’re very ambitious, ambitious enough to attempt the single-handed destruction of the British government at a stroke, not merely stirring up an opposition lobby.’ Quilhampton looked blank. ‘Come on; you know how parlous a state our country’s in . . .’ Drinkwater paused, expectant. ‘No?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir . . .’
‘Look; we need American wheat to supply Wellington; with what do we pay for it?’
‘Gold, sir.’
‘Or maybe a trifling amount of manufactures, to be sure, but principally gold. It is what the American masters want to take home with them. We need a Portuguese army in the field; with what do we pay them? And what do we pay the Spaniards with for fighting to free their own country?’
‘Gold again . . .’
‘And our troops do not live off the land but pay the Spaniards for their provisions in . . . ?’
‘Gold.’
‘Quite so. A privateersman could stop the advance of Wellington for six weeks if he took a cargo of boots, or greatcoats, or cartridges. But there’s precious little profit in a prize containing anything so prosaic. So the death-or-glory Yankee skipper will go for the source of our wealth, James . . .’
‘You mean the India fleet, sir?’
‘Exactly,’ Drinkwater said triumphantly, ‘the East Indiamen. They’ll be leaving the factories now, catching the north-east monsoon down through the Indian seas, a convoy of ’em. Richer pickings than their West India cousins, by far.’
‘So where would you intercept them, sir, St Helena?’ Drinkwater could tell by Quilhampton’s tone that he was sceptical, suggesting the British outpost as some remote, almost ridiculous area.
‘I think so,’ he said with perfect gravity, amused by the sharp look Quilhampton threw him. ‘But first we’ll blockade the Chesapeake, show our noses to the enemy. Let it be known there are detached flying squadrons at sea, it may deter them a little. I’ll shift to the Sprite for a day or two.’ Drinkwater grinned at the look of surprise spreading on Quilhampton’s face. ‘You’ll be in command, James.’
‘But why, sir? I mean, why shift to the Sprite?’
‘Because I intend paying a visit to the Potomac. There is something I wish to know.’
CHAPTER 13
October 1812
The Intruder
‘Do we have much further to go, sir?’ Sundercombe asked, looming out of the darkness. ‘The wind is dying.’
‘Bring her to an anchor, Mr Sundercombe, then haul the cutter alongside and I’ll continue by boat. You’ll be all right lying hereabouts and I’ll be back by dawn. If I’m not, keep the American colours hoisted and lie quiet.’
‘If I’m attacked, sir, or challenged?’
‘Get out to sea.’
Drinkwater sensed the relief in Sundercombe’s voice. They were seventy miles from the Atlantic, though only sixty from Hasty, ordered inside the Virginia capes to flaunt French colours in an attempt to keep inquisitive Americans guessing. They had left Hasty before noon, ignored the merchant ships anchored in Mockjack Bay and the James and York rivers, and headed north, exchanging innocent waves with passing fishing boats and coasters. Sundercombe’s was an unenviable task, and Drinkwater had given him no opportunity to ask questions, nor offered him an explanation. The fewer people who knew what he was doing, the better. If he was wrong in his hunch, the sooner they got out to sea the better, though their presence under either French or British colours would confuse the enemy. If he had guessed correctly, confirmation would give him the confidence he needed, though he could not deny a powerful ulterior motive: the chance of seeing Arabella Shaw again swelled a bubble of anticipation in his belly. Either way, if he lost Hasty or the schooner in the Chesapeake, he would be hard put to offer an explanation. Assuming he survived any such engagement, of course. He thrust such megrimish thoughts roughly aside.
‘Pass word for Caldecott.’
Drinkwater’s new coxswain rolled aft, a small, wiry figure, even in the darkness.
‘I’m going on in the cutter, Caldecott. I have to make a rendezvous, with an informer,’ he added, lest the man thought otherwise. ‘I want perfect silence in the boat, particularly when and where I tell you to beach her. You must then stand by the place until I return. The slightest noise will raise the alarm and if any of your bullies think of desertin’, dissuade them. They might have got away with it a twelve-month ago, but no one loves an Englishman hereabouts now. D’you understand me?’
‘
Aye, sir. No one’ll desert, an’ I’ll swing if a single noise escapes their bleedin’ mouths.’ The raw Cockney accent cut the night.
‘Good. There’ll be a bottle or two for good conduct when we get back.’
‘Beg pardon, sir . . .’
‘What is it?’
‘ ’Ow long’ll you be?’
‘An hour or two at the most. Now make ready. It’s almost midnight.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Moonrise was at about two, but they were two days after the new moon and the thin sliver of the distant satellite would scarcely betray them. Besides, it was clouding over.
The Sprite’s gaffs came down, the mast hoops rattling in their descent, and from forward came the splash of the anchor and the low rumble of cable. The schooner’s crew moved in disciplined silence about the deck and Drinkwater marked the fact, reminding himself to advance Sundercombe, if it came into his power.
‘Your cutter’s alongside, sir. I’ve had a barricoe of water and a bag of biscuit put in it,’ Sundercombe paused, as if weighing up his superior. ‘I did not think it would be appropriate to add any liquor though . . .’ His voice tailed off, inviting praise or condemnation.
‘You acted quite properly, Mr Sundercombe. We can enjoy a glass later, when this business is over.’ Drinkwater had explained to Caldecott, he ought at the very least to confide now in Mr Sundercombe. ‘I intend to meet an informer, d’you see, Mr Sundercombe?’
‘You have a rendezvous arranged, sir?’ The question was shrewd.
‘No, but I know the person’s house.’ Drinkwater made a move, a signal the confidence was over. ‘I shall be back by dawn.’
‘Good fortune, sir.’
Sundercombe watched as Drinkwater threw his leg over the schooner’s rail and clambered down into the waiting boat. A few moments later it pulled into the darkness, the dim, pale splashes of the oar blades gradually fading with the soft noise of their movement.
The Flying Squadron Page 19
