Then round her stern and into view from Cyclops's gig swept an admiral's barge. At its bow fluttered the red cross of St George. The oarsmen bent to their task with unanimous precision, their red and white striped shirts moving in unison, their heads crowned by black beavers. A small dapper midshipman stood upright in the stern, hand on tiller. His uniform was immaculate, his hat set at a rakish angle. Drinkwater stared down at his own crumpled coat and badly cobbled trousers; he felt distinctly uncomfortable.
Also in the stem of the barge sat an old-looking man wrapped in a boat cloak. The lasting impression made on Drinkwater was a thin, hard mouth, then the barge was alongside Sandwich and Admiral Sir George Brydges Rodney was ascending the side of his flagship. A squeal of pipes, a roll of drums and a twinkle of light as the bayonets flashed to the present; at the main masthead the black ball broke out and revealed itself as the red cross of St George. At this sight the guns of the fleet roared out in salute.
Admiral Rodney had arrived to take command of the fleet.
A few minutes later Drinkwater hurled his grapnel at Sandwich's mainchains. By good fortune it held first time and, to indifferent ceremonial, Captain Hope reported to his superior.
Chapter Two
The Danish Brig
January 1780
On New Year's Day, 1780, Rodney's armada was at sea. In addition to the scouting frigates and twenty-one line of battleships no less than three hundred merchantmen cleared the Channel that chill morning. In accordance with her instructions Cyclops was part of the escort attending the transports and so took no part in the action of 8th January.
A Spanish squadron of four frigates, two corvettes and the 64-gun ship Guipuscoano was encountered off Cape Finisterre with a convoy of fifteen merchantmen. The entire force was surrounded and taken. Prize crews were put on board and the captured vessels escorted back to England by the Guipuscoano, renamed Prince William in honour of the Duke of Clarence then a midshipman with the fleet. The captured vessels which contained victuals were retained to augment the supplies destined for Gibraltar.
As the concourse of ships plodded its slow way down the Iberian coast on the afternoon of the 15th, Drinkwater sat in the foretop of the Cyclops. It was his action station and he had come to regard it as something of his own domain, guarded as it was by its musket rests and a small swivel gun. Here he was free of the rank taint between decks, the bullying senselessness of Morris and here too, in the dog watches, he was able to learn some of the finer points of the seaman's art from an able seaman named Tregembo.
Young Nathaniel was quick to learn and impressed most of his superiors with his eager enthusiasm to attempt any task. But on this afternoon he was enjoying a rest, soaking up the unaccustomed luxury of January sunshine. It seemed impossible that only a couple of months previously he had known nothing of this life. So packed with events and impressions had the period been that it seemed another lifetime in which he had bid his widowed mother and younger brother farewell. Now, he reflected with the beginnings of pride, he was part of the complex organisation that made Cyclops a man o'war.
Drinkwater gazed over the ship which creaked below him. He saw Captain Hope as an old, remote figure in stark contrast to his first lieutenant. The Honourable John Devaux was the third son of an earl, an aristocrat to his fingertips, albeit an impoverished one, and a Whig to boot. He and Hope were political opponents and Devaux's haughty youth annoyed the captain. Henry Hope had been too long in the service to let it show too frequently since Devaux, with influence, was not to be antagonised. In truth, the younger man's competence was never in doubt. Unlike many of his class he had taken an interest in the business of naval war which was motivated by more than an instinct for survival. Had his politics been different or the government Whig he might have been in Hope's shoes and Hope in his. It was a fact both had the intelligence to acknowledge and though friction was never far from the surface it was always veiled.
As for Cyclops herself she had shaken down as well as any ship manned under the system of the press. Her crew had exercised at the great guns under their divisional officers and her signalling system had been sorely strained trying to maintain order amongst the unruly merchantmen but, by and large both captain and first lieutenant agreed, she would do. Hope had no illusions about glory so fanaticism was absent from his character. If his officers were able and his crew willing, he asked no more of them.
To Nathaniel Drinkwater dozing in his top Cyclops had become his only real world. His doubts had begun to evaporate under the influence of a change in the weather and youthful adaptability. He was slowly learning that the midshipmen's berth was an environment in which it was just possible to exist. Although he loathed Morris and disliked several of the older members of his mess, the majority were pleasant enough boys. They got on well together bearing Morris's bullying with fortitude and commiserating in their hatred of him.
Drinkwater regarded Lieutenant Devaux with awe and the old sailing master, Blackmore, whose duties included the instruction of the midshipmen in the rudiments of navigation, with the respect he might have felt for his father had the latter been living. The nearest he came to friendship was with the topman Tregembo who handled the foretop swivel gun in action. He proved an endless source of wisdom and information about the frigate and her minutiae. A Cornishman of uncertain age he had been caught with a dubious cargo in the fish-well of his father's lugger off the Lizard by a revenue cutter. His father had offered the officers armed resistance and been hanged for his pains. As an act of clemency his son was given a lighter sentence which, the justices assured the court, would mitigate the grief felt by the wife of the dastardly smuggler: impressment. Tregembo had hardly stepped ashore since.
Drinkwater smiled to himself feeling, up here in his little kingdom, the self-satisfaction of youth seeping through him. Below on deck one bell rang through the ship. He was on watch in fifteen minutes. He rose and looked up.
Above him the topmast met the topgallant and at the upper hounds sat the lookout. A mood of devilment seized him; he would ascend to the hounds and from there slide down the backstay to the deck. The long descent would be an impressive demonstration of his proficiency as a seaman. He began to climb.
Casting his leg over the topgallant yard he joined the man on lookout. Far below him Cyclops rolled gently. His view of the deck was broken by the bellying sails and lent perspective by the diminishing rigging, each rope leading down to its respective belaying pin or eyebolt.
The seaman made shift for him and Drinkwater looked around. The blue circle of the sea was broken by some two hundred odd white specks as the armada sailed south. In that direction, below the horizon, the advanced frigates reconnoitred. Behind them in three divisions came the dark hulls of the ships of the line, a few of them wearing the yellow gunstrakes that would soon become uniform. In the centre of the middle column Sandwich carried Admiral Rodney, the man responsible for all this puissance. Behind the battleships a couple of cutters and a schooner, tenders to the fleet, followed like dogs in the wake of their master. Then in a great mass came the convoy of troopships, storeships, cargo vessels with an escort of four frigates and two sloops of war. Cyclops's station on the inshore bow of the convoy made her the nearest frigate to the rear division of battleships and the most advanced ship of the convoy itself.
From his elevated position Drinkwater looked out to larboard. Eight or nine leagues distant, slightly dun coloured in the westering sun, the coast of Portugal was clearly visible. His eyes raked over the horizon casually and he was about to descend to the deck when his attention was caught by an irregularity. A small speck of white almost abeam of them was set against the backdrop of the coast. He nudged the seaman and pointed.
'Sail, sir,' the man responded matter-of-factly.
'Yes — I'll hail,' then in as manly a voice as he could muster: 'Deck there!'
Faintly the voice of Keene, the third lieutenant came back, 'Aye, aye?'
'Sail eight points to larboard!' Drink
water reached for the backstay and began his spectacular hand over hand descent. In the excitement of the strange sail nobody noticed him.
'Signal from flag, sir,' said Lieutenant Keene to Captain Hope as Drinkwater came aft.
'Well?'
'Our number. Chase.'
'Acknowledge,' said the Captain, 'Mr Keene put the ship before the wind.'
Drinkwater assisted making up the answering signal as the lieutenant turned to bellow orders through his speaking trumpet. Bosun's mates chivvied the people and the helm was put up. Cyclops swung to the east, the braces rattling through the sheaves as the yards swung round.
'All sail if you please Mr Keene.'
'Aye, aye, sir!' There was enthusiasm in the lieutenant's voice and a ripple of excitement ran through the ship. Free of the constrictions necessary in keeping station the frigate spread her wings. Clew and bunt-lines were cast off the pins as the topmen spread out along the footropes loosening the canvas. As the master's mates stationed at the bunt of each sail waved to the deck the order was given to sheet home. The topgallants billowed, collapsed and billowed again as the waisters tallied on to the halliards and the yards rose from the caps. Cyclops leaned to the increase of power, the hempen rigging drew tight and the vessel began to tremble gently as she gathered speed. The frigate surged through the dark Atlantic, the white vee of her wake creaming out from under her transom.
On deck the watch changed and the waist cleared as men, drawn on deck by the excitement, went below again.
Drinkwater found the captain staring at him. 'Sir?' he ventured.
'Mr, er…'
'Drinkwater, sir.'
'Ahh. Mr Drinkwater take a glass to the foremasthead and see what you make of her. D'you think you can do that?'
'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater took from a rack an exceedingly battered telescope which was provided by a generous Navy Board for the exclusive use of the ship's 'young gentlemen'. He started for the foremast rigging.
It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he returned to the deck. Aware that Hope was testing his ability he had waited until he had something positive to report.
He touched his hat to the captain.
'She's a brig, sir. Not flying colours, sir.'
'Very well, Mr Drinkwater.'
'See her from the deck now, sir,' drawled Devaux who had come up on deck.
The captain nodded. 'Clear away the bow chasers, Mr Devaux…'
Drinkwater too could see the two masted vessel they were bearing down upon. He watched for the bright spot of colour that must surely appear soon to denote her nationality. A dozen other telescopes were endeavouring to glean the same information. A red speck rose to her peak, red with a white cross.
'Danish!' A dozen people snapped out simultaneously.
Cyclops tore down on her quarry and on a nod from Hope a gun barked from forward, its smoke rolling slowly ahead of the onrushing frigate.
A white spout rose ahead of the Danish ship. It was a cable short but it had the desired effect as the Dane backed his main topsail and hove to.
'Mr Devaux, you'll board.'
Orders flew. Where previously every idler in the ship had been intently watching the chase, chaos erupted. Out of this apparent disorder the main and forecourses rose in their bunt-lines and groups of organised men appeared to lower the lee quarter boat as Cyclops turned to back her main topsail.
Devaux shouted more orders and Drinkwater heard his own name in the confusion.
'Get in that boat, cully!' roared the first lieutenant and Nathaniel ran to the waist where a net had been flung over the side. The boat's crew were aboard but extra seamen armed with cutlasses were swarming down into her. Drinkwater cocked a foot over the rail, caught the leg of his trousers on a belaying pin and heard the fabric rip. But this time it did not seem to matter.
He scrambled down into the boat. To his surprise Devaux was already there, still shouting.
'Where in God's name is Wheeler?' he roared at nobody in particular. Then as the red-coated marine lieutenant and six of his men clumsily descended the netting, their Tower muskets tangling in the cordage, 'Come on you bloody lobsters!' Devaux yelled to the appreciative grins of the seamen. Lieutenant Wheeler resented the insult to his service, but he was unable to retaliate due to his preoccupation with getting himself and his hanger into the boat without a total loss of dignity.
'Shove off! Out oars! Give way together and put your backs into it!'
The big boat drove forward and Devaux pushed the tiller into Drinkwater's hand.
'Take her alongside his lee side and keep her there.' He turned to Wheeler, 'She's a neutral so don't board unless you hear me shout.' He raised his voice, 'Bosun's mate!' The petty officer with the armed seamen stood up in the bow.
'Sir?'
'Make no attempt to board unless I need help — if I shout I want the whole bloody lot of you!'
The seamen grinned and fingered their blades. Minutes later Drinkwater's cracking voice was bellowing 'Oars!… Toss Oars!… Hook on!' Lieutenant Devaux leapt for the Dane's chains. For a second or two his elegant legs dangled incongruously, then he had hoisted himself to the deck of the brig.
The boat bounced up and down the side of the strange ship. Occasionally a towheaded face looked curiously overside at them. All in the boat were nervous. A few cannon balls dropped from the rail would plummet through the boat's planking. It seemed to Drinkwater that the first lieutenant had been gone hours. He watched the rail advance and recede as the Atlantic shoved the boat up the Dane's side then dropped her down again. He looked anxiously at Wheeler. The marine officer just smiled, 'Don't worry, cully. When the Hon John is in trouble he'll squeal.'
At last, to his infinite relief, Drinkwater saw Devaux's legs swing over the rail. He heard the lieutenant's suave voice, all trace of coarseness gone,
'Yer servant ma'am,' and the next instant he had tumbled into the boat. He grabbed the tiller from Drinkwater without ceremony.
'Shove off!… Oars!… Give way together and pull you buggers!' Devaux crouched in the stern, his body bent with urgency.
'Pull! Pull! Pull like you'd pull a Frenchman off Yer mother!' The men grinned at the obscenity. Devaux knew his business and the seamen bent their oar looms with effort, the blades sprang from the water and flew forward for the next stroke. Astern of them the Dane made sail. Once Devaux looked back and, following his gaze, Drinkwater made out a flash of colour where a woman waved.
'Wheeler,' said Devaux, 'we've work to do.' Quite deliberately Devaux told Wheeler the news. He knew the men within hearing would pass it on to the lower deck. Equally he knew Hope would not bother to do so, only a garbled version might reach the innermost recesses of Cyclops unless Devaux disseminated the information himself. These men could shortly be called upon to die and the first lieutenant sought to infect them with blood lust. He had seen what a fighting madness such enthusiasm could induce in British seamen and he knew Cyclops might need just such an infection in the coming hours.
'That Dane has just sailed from Cadiz. The Dons are at sea, a fleet of 'em. Bit of luck he was pro-British.' He paused reflectively. 'Married to an English girl. Damned handsome woman too…' he grinned, the marines grinned too — the message was going home.
It was dark when Cyclops rejoined the fleet. A full moon enabled Hope to take her in amongst the concourse of ships to where the three horizontal lanterns in Sandwich's rigging marked the presence of the Admiral.
Shortening sail the frigate sent a boat across and Devaux had reported to Rodney. The outcome of this momentous news was that Cyclops had been ordered to make sail and warn the advance frigates. The fleet had shortened sail at sunset to avoid dispersal and aid station keeping so that Cyclops soon drew ahead of the battleships, passing down the regular lines of massive sides which dwarfed the swifter frigate as they lumbered along, creaking in the moonlight.
At dawn Cyclops was in sight of the frigates. Astern of her the fleet's topsails were just visible with one ship
, the two decked seventy-four-gun Bedford, crowding on sail to come up with the cruisers.
Hampered by the poor signalling code in use Hope had difficulty in conveying the meaning of his message to the more distant frigates. By a happy coincidence, however, he chose 'Clear for action' and two hours later Bedford came up flying the same signal, her two lines of gun muzzles already visible, for Rodney had thrown out the order to his fleet at dawn.
At the first beat of the marine drummer's sticks Drinkwater had sensed the tension in Cyclops. He raced for his station in the foretop where the swivel was loaded and primed. But there was no occasion for haste. All morning the British stood at action stations without any sign of the enemy. During the forenoon division after division of the fleet had altered course to the south east, rounding the pink cliffs of Cape Saint Vincent and heading for the Straits of Gibraltar. At noon half of Cyclops's company stood down for a meal of beer, flip and biscuit.
After a hasty meal Drinkwater, eager not to miss a moment of what popular comment was saying would be a fleet action, returned to the foretop. He looked around him. The frigates had drawn back on the main body and Bedford had come up to occupy the inshore station.
In the foretop his men had loaded their muskets. Tregembo was musingly caressing the toy swivel gun. Astern in the main top Morris's blue coat could clearly be seen. He was bending over a young Devon seaman whose good looks had excited some crude jibes from his messmates. Drinkwater could not quite identify the feeling engendered by the sight of Morris thus engaged beyond the fact that it was vaguely disquieting. He was still a comparative innocent to the perversions of humanity.
Astern of Morris Sergeant Hagan commanded the mizzen top and its marine sharpshooters. Their scarlet coats were a splash of vivid colour against the black hemp rigging that almost obscured the view. Looking down Nathaniel had an unimpeded view of the quarterdeck as, cleared for action, the maincourse and cross-jack were clewed up.
He saw Captain Hope and Lieutenant Devaux there with the old sailing master standing by the quartermaster and helmsmen. A gaggle of midshipmen and master's mates were also in attendance to run messages and transmit signals. But as well as blue there was scarlet aft. Wheeler, resplendent in his brilliant coat, crimson sash and the glittering gorget of a military officer had his hanger drawn. He carried it negligently in the crook of his arm but the flash of its blade was a wicked reminder of death. It was very different from the ash single stick Drinkwater had thrust and parried with at home. He had not much considered death or the possibility of dying. Falling from the rigging had at first terrified him but he had overcome that. But supposing a mast, the foremast perhaps, was shot away? He looked down again to where nets were stretched above the deck to keep falling spars and rigging off the guns' crews toiling below. At the moment those gun crews were lazing around their pieces. Just visible to Nathaniel, below him on the main deck, beneath the gratings the second and third lieutenants conferred with one another on the frigate's centreline. Their demeanour was studiously casual as they waited to command their batteries.
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