The flying squadron nd-11

by Ричард Вудмен

'D'you strike, there?' he shouted, 'Strike, sir, and put an end to this madness!'

  A man, an officer by his torn blue coat and brass buttons that gleamed dully in the fading light, fought his way clear of the encumbering bunt of the huge mainsail and waved his hand. It was covered with blood which fell upon the canvas beside him. Drinkwater recognized him as the man who had, a few moments earlier, been on the point of hauling down the Lady Lennox's ensign. Somehow he had regained his own deck under Moncrieff's murderous fire.

  'Hold your fire, Moncrieff. Cease fire there, cease fire!'

  The officer on the deck below him staggered and Drinkwater realized the schooner was sinking beneath his feet.

  'Mr Q,' he called, 'have a boat lowered. Mr Davies is to take the survivors off, and pass word to the surgeon to expect some badly wounded. Mr Porter, recall your gunners before they lose their heads completely.' He raised the speaking trumpet again. 'Lady Lennox 'hoy!'

  An officer in the panoply of the Honourable East India Company appeared at the rail. 'Have you suffered much?' Drinkwater enquired.

  'A score or so killed and twice as many wounded, mostly lascars and coolies, sir,' the officer said dismissively. 'We took round shot through the hull, but we can plug the holes.' Drinkwater recalled the heavy traversing cannon now hidden under the wrecked top-hamper of the schooner.

  'What's the news from the starboard side?' Drinkwater called.

  'Much the same. Your frigate's hauling off with the enemy secured alongside. My commander, Captain Barnard, presents his compliments and his deepest sense of obligation to you, sir, and desires to know your name.'

  'My respects to Captain Barnard, sir,' Drinkwater replied. 'My name is Drinkwater, Nathaniel Drinkwater, and I am glad to be of service.'

  'You have saved the Company a fortune, Captain Drinkwater.'

  'I am glad to hear it...'

  'I know that man,' Moncrieff's voice suddenly announced, cutting through the calm that followed the surrender and the exchange between Drinkwater and the Lady Lennox's officer. 'That fellow staring up at us; he was in the Potomac'

  Distracted, Drinkwater looked down again. The officer with the shattered hand was swaying, the stain of blood on the canvas beside him spreading darkly.

  'God's bones,' Drinkwater blasphemed, 'get him aboard at once. It's Tucker!'

  CHAPTER 17

  The Flying Squadron

  February 1813

  'Who commands you?' Drinkwater asked. Ashen-faced, Lieutenant Tucker lolled in the chair, eyes closed, panting with pain. His roughly bandaged hand with a tourniquet above the wrist lay across his breast. Quilhampton stood anxiously at his shoulder.

  It was growing dark in the cabin and other matters clamoured for attention as night fell. 'Come, sir, answer. You may see the surgeon the moment you have told me what I want to know. Who commands you?'

  Eyes closed, Tucker shook his head. Drinkwater and Quilhampton exchanged glances. 'It's Stewart, isn't it, eh? Captain Stewart?' Drinkwater raised his voice, cutting through the fog of agony clouding Tucker's consciousness, 'late of the Stingray.'

  Tucker's eyes flickered open; the small affirmative was enough for Drinkwater. 'Is there a frigate with you?'

  There was no doubt, even in his befuddled state, of Tucker's surprise. 'Frigate...' he murmured, adding a second word that Drinkwater failed to catch.

  'What did he say?'

  'Didn't hear, sir, answered Quilhampton, bending over the prisoner.

  'Come, sir, you're a damned pirate. You ain't a naval officer and can't expect exchange in a cartel. Answer me and I'll do my best to see you aren't thrown into Dartmoor Gaol. In the meantime you need the services of my surgeon. Is there a frigate in the offing? An American frigate?'

  Something like comprehension passed a shadow over Tucker's face, he moved on the chair, tried to draw himself upright, shook his head and muttered, 'Not an American…'

  'He said, "Not an American ..."'

  'I heard him, James ... A French frigate, then? Is that it? There's a French frigate to the eastward?'

  Tucker's face crumpled, he closed his eyes tightly, and sank into the chair. The bandages wrapped around his stump were sodden with blood.

  'Good God!' Drinkwater ran a hand through his hair, "Tis worse than I thought...' He looked up at Quilhampton. 'James, I'll stake my hat the lost Indiamen and a French frigate are to the eastward ... I'll have to explain later. Be a good fellow and see to Tucker here.'

  'I'll get him below, sir ...'

  'No, he's a brave fellow, we'll spare him the indignity of Pym's cockpit. Have Pym operate on him here.'

  Drinkwater stood for a moment beside the wounded American and put a hand on his shoulder. 'You've betrayed nothing, Mr Tucker, I assure you, merely confirmed my suspicions. Mr Quilhampton will attend to you, he knows what it's like to lose a hand. Give him some laudanum, James, I fear I've used him barbarously.'

  Running on deck Drinkwater cast a quick look about him. Night was upon them. The convoy was to the north-north-west, etched black against the last gleam of twilight. Both Patrician and Cymbeline had detached themselves from the convoy and lay hove-to in its wake. All that remained of the schooner Patrician had crushed was some wreckage, dark debris on the grey surface of the ocean. Thorowgood was busy putting a prize-crew aboard the other which, a master's mate in one of Cymbeline's boats was just then reporting to Lieutenant Gordon, had proved to be the Shark of Baltimore.

  'Tell Captain Thorowgood to rejoin the convoy with Sprite and his prize,' Drinkwater called down to the boat, 'I'm going in pursuit.'

  Ashby and Sundercombe had ably covered the convoy's rear. Discovering the force against them, the remaining privateers had not pressed their attack. They were making off in the darkness to windward as fast as they could with Icarus in lagging pursuit and Sprite hard on their heels, white blurs in the gathering night. Drinkwater waved the boat off and rounded on Wyatt.

  'Set the stuns'ls, Mr Wyatt, and lay me a course to the eastward.'

  'The eastward, sir?' Wyatt stared at the dull gleam of Icarus's battle lantern to the southward.

  'Yes, damn you, the eastward. Mr Gordon, make to Icarus and Sprite: discontinue the chase. The night signal, if you please.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Quilhampton hauled himself wearily up the quarterdeck ladder. He was aware he had misjudged Drinkwater.

  'Well, James,' Drinkwater said briskly, 'I'm setting the kites.'

  'You're going in pursuit, sir?' Quilhampton threw a bewildered look at the disparate heading of the schooners and Patrician. Wyatt gave a mighty shrug. Drinkwater laughed. His spirits were soaring. 'I'm after bigger fish than those minnows, James ...'

  'Tucker's frigate?'

  'Tucker's frigate.'

  'You're certain of her being there?'

  'As certain of anything in this perilous life, James.'

  'Sometime, sir, you might oblige me with an explanation.'

  Drinkwater laughed again. 'The moment I'm proved right.' Tiredness and then the exhilaration of the last hours had raised Drinkwater's morale to a pitch of almost unbearable anticipation. 'Is Tucker being attended to?' he asked, in an attempt to recapture the dignity consonant with his rank.

  'He's under Pym's knife at the moment, sir.'

  'Pym's a good surgeon and Tucker looked to have the constitution of an ox.'

  'Very well.'

  The formal, non-commital response might have described them all. They had done very well. He was ridiculously pleased he had harangued his captains. It was perhaps fortunate that their gunnery had not been tested, that they had confronted nothing more than privateers, but they had manoeuvred like veterans and he must remember to say so in his report to their Lordships. The escaping schooners were unlikely to return to harry the convoy; they had been thoroughly frightened. Guile and skilful ship-handling had brought the British a local ascendancy. Now, Drinkwater mused, they must hold the advantage surprise had conferred.

  'Mr Wyatt!' Drinkwater b
eckoned to the master and he crossed the deck, expecting a rebuke. 'You did very well, Mr Wyatt. The ship was handled with perfect precision.'

  'Thank you, sir,' Wyatt said smugly.

  'I may need your skill again before dawn, Mr Wyatt. I am in quest of a frigate

  'A frigate ... ?' Wyatt's tone was incredulous in the dark.

  'Not an American frigate, you'll be pleased to hear,' Drinkwater said ironically, 'at least, I hope not...' He was interrupted by a hail from the maintop:

  'Deck there! I can see fire, fire on the larboard bow!'

  'Ah,' sighed Drinkwater, 'ease the helm a half-point, Mr Wyatt. James, pipe up spirits, and then send the men back to their stations.'

  An hour later they were approaching the source of the fire with every man at his station, and under fighting sails.

  'Ease the helm another point, Mr Wyatt. Let us drop a little to loo'ard and cut off their retreat.' The dull glow of the fire opened on the starboard bow, allowing a better view from the quarterdeck. Their approach, concealed by darkness, was slow enough for Drinkwater, studying the dispositions of a number of vessels clustered about and illuminated by the burning Indiaman, to deduce the gist of what was happening.

  'They have very likely spent the day transhipping what they wanted out of the Indiaman they have fired,' he explained to Quilhampton, as both men stood side by side, their telescopes braced against the mizen rigging. 'You can see the schooner which was mauled by Sparrowhawk ...'

  'She's lying alongside another East India Company ship,' observed Quilhampton.

  'It looks as though they used her mainyard as mast-sheers, they've got what looks like two handy spars back in that schooner already,' he said admiringly.

  'There's another ship, looks like an Indiaman, though she could be your frigate, just to the left; d'you see?'

  Drinkwater shifted his glass. 'Yes. They're waiting for the schooners to come back with another prize, I think. One of those two will be the Kenilworth Castle. She's carrying specie.'

  'Didn't that Company Johnnie indicate the Lennox was similarly loaded?' Quilhampton asked, catching something of his commander's excitement.

  'Indeed he did,' Drinkwater said with a sudden, tense deliberation which made Quilhampton lower his glass, look at Drinkwater and then smartly raise it again.

  There was no mistaking the ship that now came into view. Hidden from them at first by the glow of the burning Indiaman, her lower hull was concealed, her tall masts indistinguishable behind the mass of the Indiaman's top-hamper up which the flames were now racing as the fire took a hold. The sudden flaring of the gigantic torch lit up all within its illuminating circle.

  Quilhampton gave a low whistle. 'There's your French frigate, sir.'

  Patrician was directly downwind of the group now, and a wave of warm air drifted towards them. A dull crackling roar could be heard, borne on the trade wind. The French frigate was hove to, like the Indiamen, under a backed main topsail, drifting slowly past the burning ship from which a cloud of sparks suddenly shot upwards. Concealed from the American and French allies busy at their mid-ocean rendezvous by the utter darkness beyond the range of their bonfire, Patrician slipped past unobserved, a mile to the north of them.

  'I'm going about in a moment or two, gentlemen,' Drinkwater announced to the officers assembled on the quarterdeck. 'When I have done so we will engage the Frenchman from windward. Starboard battery to open fire. We shall have to watch that burning Indiaman, but his windage is being fast consumed and the others are making greater leeway, increasing the distance between them. I will then attempt to rake ...'

  'Sir!' Gordon was pointing; a moment later the concussion of cannon-fire rolled over the water.

  'They've seen us ...' someone said.

  'No they haven't,' shouted Moncrieff, 'they're firing away from us ...'

  'What the devil... ?'

  'It isn't them firing, it's Icarus!

  'Hands to tack ship!' Drinkwater roared, 'By God we've got 'em! Take post, gentlemen, upon the instant if you please!'

  There was a bustling aboard the Patrician, as the officers dispersed to their stations. The men, watching the conflagration in ordered silence, suddenly tensed. They were no longer observers, now they were to participate.

  'Mainsail haul!' Wyatt shouted, 'Leggo and haul.. . haul aft the lee sheets, stretch those bowlines forrard now! Keep your eyes inboard and attend to your business!'

  'Icarus must have mistaken your signal, sir.'

  'Aye, we never thought to look astern in our conceit, did we?'

  'I doubt we'd have seen her ... there she is ... she's got Sprite under her lee bow. Ashby must have assumed he was to follow us.'

  'Perhaps it was no bad assumption and, damn it, I bet it fooled the buggers — the two of 'em look like a Yankee clipper and a captured Indiaman!'

  Icarus could be seen clearly now looming on the edge of the firelit circle, hauling up her fore and mainsail, shortening down to fighting sail as she came up with less caution than Drinkwater's Patrician. A broadside rippled along her side, the brilliance of the gun's discharges bright points in the night, though they could see nothing of the fall of the shot.

  'Bring her round a little more to starboard, Mr Wyatt. Let us see if we can add to the confusion.'

  Slowly Patrician swung and gathered way as she came off the wind. With the burning Indiaman, now almost reduced to a hulk, the other ships were drifting away fast.

  At any moment Patrician herself would come between them and the blaze, revealing her presence.

  Midshipman Porter bobbed close to Drinkwater, his red face ruddier in the glow. 'Mr Gordon's compliments and the starboard chase guns will bear.'

  'Very well, Mr Porter, you may tell Mr Gordon to fire at will, but to have every gun-captain lay his piece carefully. I want no noisy, ineffectual broadsides.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'The frog's making sail, sir.' They were too late for complete surprise. Someone aboard the French frigate had seen Patrician and she was hauling her backed main yards and letting fall her lower canvas. Just then the first of Gordon's 24-pounders roared, followed by a second and a third. A cheer went up from the waist and Quilhampton bellowed for silence.

  'He's going to rake Ashby, by God!' Moncrieff called, but Drinkwater had already seen Ashby's dilemma and watched as he threw his helm over, attempting to swing round on to a parallel course to the Frenchman and trade broadside for broadside.

  'He's no fool,' Drinkwater muttered admiringly of the French commander. The broadside itself was hidden from them, but they saw the impact clearly on the Icarus, even in the dark, for she rolled in the swell as she turned and the pale rectangle of her fore topsail became first a triangle, then ceased to exist as her foremast crashed to the deck.

  'Firing high, by God, he's goin' to run!'

  Bright pin-points, like two blinking cat's eyes, sparked from the Frenchman's stern. A column of water rose up close to Patrician's starboard bow and a crash from forward, followed by the murderous whirr of flying splinters, told where a shot had struck home.

  'He's firing his stern chasers, sir.'

  'I can see that, Mr Q. Mr Wyatt, lay me a course to pass close to Icarus, I wish to speak to Ashby and it will at least give us a chance to get a broadside in at that fellow.'

  The blazing Indiaman was broad on their larboard beam and dropping astern. The French frigate was making off to the north, leaving the remaining Indiaman and the schooner to their fate. Sprite had worn round under Icarus's stern and was engaging the jury-rigged schooner.

  'Good man, Sundercombe,' Drinkwater muttered, seizing the speaking trumpet as they bore down on the Icarus. Men were swarming on her forecastle and he could see the glimmer of lanterns as they sought to clear away the tangle of fallen gear. Drinkwater leapt up on the rail, clasping the mizen rigging with one hand and the speaking trumpet with the other.

  'Icarus ahoy Captain Ashby…'

  'Sir?'

  'Secure what you can here.
Those are two captured Indiamen, by the way, with prize-crews aboard. Then rejoin the convoy. Keep Sprite under your orders. I'm going in pursuit of that frigate.'

  'He's a Frenchman, Captain Drinkwater, did you know?'

  'Yes. Are you manageable?'

  'Aye, I've a forecourse, I think ...'

  'Good luck.'

  'And you.'

  They waved, their ships rolling in the swell, and Wyatt brought Patrician on to a course parallel with the retiring French frigate. She was ahead and to starboard of the British ship and both had the fresh trade wind blowing on their starboard quarters.

  'It's going to be a long night, James,' Drinkwater remarked.

  'It's already nearly ten,' Quilhampton said after consulting his watch.

  'Moonrise in three hours.'

  They set every stitch of canvas the spars could stand, started the mast wedges and ran preventer stays up to the topmast caps, setting them up with luff tackles. Never had the Patrician's crew been so hard driven since, those who remembered it afterwards claimed, they had been in the Pacific. There was, Drinkwater knew, little doubt of the outcome if the masts and spars and canvas and cordage stood the strain. The French frigate was a fast ship, but slightly smaller than the British, of a lighter build and, though well handled, unable to match the hardiness of her pursuer. Patrician was a razee, a cut-down sixty-four gun line-of-battle ship, heavy, but able to stand punishment and, in a strengthening wind, in her element with a quartering sea. Moonrise found the distance between the two ships significantly lessened. Patches of cloud came and went across the face of the full moon, adding to the drama and excitement of the night, and periodically Lieutenant Gordon, pointing the guns himself, tried a shot at the enemy's top-hamper, seeking to cripple him as he fled.

  And periodically too, the enemy fired back, though both commanders knew the issue would not be so easily settled, that their scudding ships, heeling and scending under their press of sail, were uncertain gun-platforms, that the angle between them was too fine for more than a lucky shot to tell, and that either luck on the part of one, or disaster for the other, would bring the matter to a conclusion before daylight.