An Eye of the Fleet nd-1

by Richard Woodman

  The news, though vital to the progress of the war, was of secondary importance to the ship's company of Cyclops. All the weary voyage from the Mediterranean the ship had buzzed as every mess speculated on the likely value of the prize.

  There was not a man in the entire crew who did not imagine himself in some state of luxury or gross debauch as a result of the purchase of Santa Teresa into the Royal Navy. For Henry Hope it meant security in old age; for Devaux the means of re-entering society and, hopefully, contracting an advantageous marriage. To men like Morris, Tregembo and O'Malley fantasies of splendid proportions rose in their imaginations as they prepared to make obeisance at the temples of Bacchus and Aphrodite.

  But as the two frigates and their empty convoy sailed northward the initial excitement passed. Arguments broke out as to how much hard money was involved and, more important, how much each man would receive. Rumour, speculation and conjecture rippled through the ship like wind through standing corn. A chance remark made by an officer, overheard by a quartermaster and passed along the lower deck, sparked off fresh waves of debate based on no single thread of fact but by mountains of wishful thinking. Only the previous year frigates like Cyclops had taken the annual treasure fleet from the Spanish Indies. It had made their captains fabulously wealthy; even able-seamen had received the sum of £182. But it was not always visions of untold wealth that occupied the imaginations of her people. As the frigate drew north other rumours gained currency. Perhaps Santa Teresa had been retaken by the Spaniards who were once again besieging Gibraltar. Or sunk by shell-fire, or burned by fireships…

  If the Spanish could not take her would they not have made an attempt to redress their honour by destroying at least some of the prizes in Gibraltar Bay?

  Gloom spread throughout Cyclops and as the days passed the talk of prize money occurred less and less frequently. By the time Cyclops sighted the Lizard all discussions on the subject had become taboo. A strange superstition had seized the hands, including the officers. A feeling that if the subject were mentioned their greed would raise the ire of the fate that ruled their lives with such arbitrary harshness. No seaman, irrespective of his class or station, could admit the philosophical contention that Atropos, Lachesis or Clotho and their elemental agents acted with impartiality. His own experience continually proved the contrary.

  Gales, battles, leaks, dismastings, disease and death; Acts of God, Acts of My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and all the other factors which combined to cause maritime discomfort, seemed to direct the whole weight of their malice at Jack Tar. Hardship was a necessary function of existence and the brief appearance of a golden ladder to a haven of wealth and ease became regarded with the deepest suspicion.

  When Cyclops's cable rumbled through the hawse and she brought up to her bower at Spithead no man dared mention Santa Teresa. But when the first lieutenant called away the captain's gig there was not a soul on board whose heartbeat did not quicken.

  Hope was absent from the ship for three hours.

  Even when he returned to the boat lying at King's Stairs the gig's crew were unable to read anything from his facial expression. Drinkwater was coxswain of the gig and set himself the task of conning her through the maze of small craft that thronged Portsmouth Harbour. In fact Drinkwater had thought less than most about the prize money. Money was something he had no experience of. There had been enough, barely enough, in his home and his interest in his new profession had both prevented him from dwelling on the subject of poverty or from realising how little he had. As yet the disturbance of lust had been a confused experience in which the romantic concepts imparted by a rudimentary education were at sharp variance with the world he found around him. He had not yet realised the power of money to purchase pleasure and his adolescent view of the opposite sex was one of total ambivalence. Besides, whilst there were no other distractions, he found the business of a sea-officer vastly more interesting and he had changed significantly since his first boat trip on the waters of Spithead. Although he had added little to his girth and height his body had hardened. His muscles were lean and strong, his formerly delicate hands sinewy with hard labour. His features remained fine drawn but there was now a touch of firmness, of authority about the mouth that had banished the feminine cast to his face. A dark shadow was forcing him to shave occasionally and his former pallor was replaced by a weathered complexion.

  There remained, however, the bright eagerness that had attracted Devaux's notice so that he used Drinkwater when he wanted a difficult task undertaken by one of the 'young gentlemen'. The first lieutenant had placed Drinkwater in a post of honour as coxswain of the captain's gig. If he could afford no fancy ribbons about his boat's crew at least Hope could have a keen young middy to swagger, dirk at his side, in the stern sheets.

  Blackmore too considered the youth the aptest of his pupils and, had it not been for the spectre of Nemesis in the form of Morris, the approbation of his seniors would have brought the keenest pleasure to Nathaniel.

  The gig danced over the water. Next to Drinkwater Hope sat in stony silence, digesting the facts that the admiral's secretary had told him. Santa Teresa had been purchased as a prize. The court had been assembled under the authority of Rear-Admiral Kempenfelt whose purpose it was to examine the findings of Duncan's preliminary hearing at Gibraltar. Kempenfelt and his prize court had decided that she was a very fine frigate indeed and had purchased her into the Service for the sum of £15,750. Captain Hope's share would amount to £3,937.10 shillings. After years of grinding service with little glory and no material rewards beyond a meagre and delayed salary, fate had smiled upon him. He could hardly believe his luck and regarded it with a seaman's cynicism which accounted for his stony visage.

  Drinkwater brought the gig alongside. Hope reached the deck and the pipes twittered in salute. Every man upon the upper deck ceased work to look at the captain for some sign of news of the Santa Teresa. All they perceived was a stony face.

  So, they concluded, their worst fears were realised. Hope walked directly aft and disappeared. The eyes of the ship's company followed the captain's retreating back. One hundred and seventy-six men, just then occupied upon the upper deck of Cyclops were united in a moment of immobile, silent, bitter disappointment.

  Some half-hour later Drinkwater was dispatched again in the gig. Instead of the captain the midshipman had orders to convey Mr Copping, the purser, ashore. Mr Copping imparted the intelligence that he was entrusted to buy some special provisions for the captain's table that evening and that the captain was holding a dinner for his officers. He also handed Drinkwater a letter written in the old captain's crabbed hand. The superscription was to 'His Excellency Richard Kempenfelt, Rear-Admiral'. Drinkwater was to deliver it while the purser attended to his purchases.

  Hope had invited all his officers, the master, gunner and the midshipmen. Appleby, the surgeon, was also present. They gathered noisily aft at three bells in the second dog watch with only the first lieutenant and Wheeler absent forming an honour guard to greet the Admiral.

  When Hope had impulsively dashed off his invitation to Kempenfelt he was in boyish high spirits. He had suppressed his mirth as he snapped orders at Copping so that that individual had left his commander with the positive belief that the worst fears of the ship's company were realised and had lost no time in sending word forward that further optimism was futile.

  Hope saw the Admiral as the true author of his good fortune and in some way wished to acknowledge his gratitude. For Kempenfelt was a popular sea officer whose brilliance shone in an age when brains were not the qualification for flag rank. His innovations were admired throughout the fleet where thinking men discussed the handling of fleets under sail more than jobbery or place seeking. Kempenfelt was, perhaps, more than that to Hope. To the captain, whose post rank he owed to the political faction he despised, the Rear-Admiral was a respected figure, and in an age when lip service of the greatest extravagance disguised base motives, Hope wished to demonstrate ho
nest, simple admiration.

  But as his officers collected on the deck above, the captain had his private doubts. Midshipman Drinkwater had brought back the Admiral's acceptance and he was beset by second thoughts. The prank he was playing on his own ship's company was childish — but captains could indulge themselves to some extent with their own people; admirals were rather different. He was not sure now what Kempenfelt would think…

  Above his head the buzz of speculative conversation came down the skylight. The officers might have got wind of the prize court's decision; it was unlikely that they had not heard by now and were doubtless writing him off as an old fool. Hope flushed but recollected himself when he heard the note of resignation in the babble above. He listened more attentively. He heard the second lieutenant, Mr Price, his lilting Welsh voice vaguely angry, say 'I told you so, eh Blackmore?' Hope could imagine the old sailing master, called in as an ally in disappointment, a man so like himself that the captain could imagine the years of experience formulating a reply to Price.

  'That's right, Mr Price, you'll never see Jolly Jack make a brass farthing out of his business,' the remark was made dully, authoritatively, an oft-uttered and oft-heard contention. Hope suddenly grinned — to hell with admirals! He had a surprise for Blackmore, a good surprise too, and of all his ship's company he would be most pleased to see the white-haired master receive his share.

  A knock came at the door. 'Enter,' Devaux stepped inside.

  'All ready sir, and the Admiral's barge is in sight.' The first lieutenant hesitated, wanting to say more. 'Sir…?'

  Hope enjoyed Devaux's discomfort. So often the easy-mannered savoir faire of the man had irritated him. Assuredly this was Henry Hope's day.

  'Yes, Mr Devaux?'

  'The… prize, sir?'

  Hope looked up sharply — perhaps his little drama made him overreact but it had its effect on Devaux. The first lieutenant jumped for the captain's threshold like a chastened midshipman.

  'The prize, Mr Devaux, the prize…' Hope managed a tone of outraged propriety, 'don't talk to me of prizes when there's an Admiral to meet.'

  Rear-Admiral Richard Kempenfelt greeted Captain Hope with a smile. He doffed his tricorne to Wheeler and his guard and nodded to Devaux. His eye rove over Cyclops and her company as Hope conducted him aft to where the now silent group of officers waited. Those who noticed such details watched their captain earnestly addressing the admiral. They might also have noticed the admiral's smile broaden and crack open in a brief laugh. At the laugh Hope relaxed. It was going to be his day after all.

  Hope introduced his officers, the warrant officers and midshipmen. Then Kempenfelt asked to be conducted round the ship.

  'I merely want to see something of Cyclops and the brave fellows who took that Spaniard.'

  Someone in the waist raised a formal cheer for the Admiral. To Devaux's ears its very half-heartedness was shameful. He did not notice Kempenfelt's eyes twinkle with amusement.

  After his brief tour of the frigate the admiral turned to Hope.

  'You've a damned taut ship, Captain Hope. We shall find work for you to do. In the mean time…' he lowered his voice. Hope nodded and turned to Devaux. 'Call all hands aft, Mr Devaux.'

  There was a vast shuffling and scurrying to a twitter of pipes and a bellowing of orders. Red-coated marines stamped aft and gradually a sort of order fell on the ship. Kempenfelt stepped forward and addressed them.

  'D'you hear now my lads, Captain Hope has asked that I give ye all the news of your prize, the frigate Santa Teresa.' He paused to watch the shuffle throughout the assembly. Expectancy, kindled in their faces by the presence of the admiral, now became a restless eagerness. The ragged line wavered.

  'You'll be pleased to know she's been purchased for…' He tailed off as a buzz that swiftly became a hum broke out.

  'Silence there!' yelled Devaux.

  '… she's been purchased for 15,000 guineas sterling and you'll all receive your due according to usage and custom.' The admiral stepped back.

  Devaux looked at Hope; he was smiling cherubically. Then, sensing the moment was right he called out:

  'Three cheers for the Admiral…'

  It was no longer half-hearted. They heard the noise on Cerberus a mile away. As the cheering died down Hope announced to Devaux, 'Mr Devaux, you may allow wives and sweethearts tomorrow, apparently the admiral's office announced us a few days ago…'

  Captain Hope was having his day. As he ushered the Admiral and his flag lieutenant into the cabin there were more cheers for the captain himself.

  The dinner in Captain Hope's cabin that evening was, as naval dinners went, unremarkable. But the setting sun laid a path of glittering gold from the horizon to the very stern windows of Cyclops and invested the scene with some of its magic. The excited babble of talk amongst the juniors present and the natural elation due to the unaccustomed wine and natural headiness of the occasion nevertheless lent to the proceedings a degree of memorability.

  Copping had provided a banquet within the limits of his materials. If Kempenfelt was unimpressed by the cookery he did not show it and to the short-rationed midshipmen any meal of more than one course automatically assumed the dignity of haute cuisine.

  Fortunately the Santa Teresa's loot had yielded a sufficiency of both Oporto and Jerez wines which made up for the indifference of Hope's claret. Some Havana cigars were also salved which, after the duff and capons had been consumed, filled the air with the aromatic luxury of their blue smoke.

  A bare hour after they had sat down Drinkwater's body was enjoying the pleasant sensations of a mild drugging. His stomach was distended to unusual proportions and his head just beginning to assume that lucid detachment from his limbs that is the pleasantest but also the briefest stage of drunkenness. As for his forgotten legs, they reclined as he had negligently left them before the increase in his cerebral concentration had drawn all the energy from them. He heard without fully comprehending the senior officers discussing Kempenfelt's new code of signals. The admiral's explanation of Rodney's action off Martinique passed through his aural organs and left his brain to seize on and amplify certain graphic phrases that his overwrought imagination dwelt on.

  Hope, Price, Keene, Devaux and Blackmore listened to the rear-admiral with professional deference, but to Drinkwater the splendid ligure of Kempenfelt poured forth the very stuff of dreams.

  After the loyal toast Kempenfelt proposed one to the Cyclops's gallantry in the night action off Cadiz. In turn Hope toasted an admiral 'without whose ratification their fortunes would have remained uncertain'. The admiral prodded his flag lieutenant and that worthy rose unsteadily and read a prepared statement toasting Lieutenant John Devaux and Midshipman Nathaniel Drinkwater for their bold action in boarding the prize and earning a special place in Hope's report. Devaux rose and bowed to the flag lieutenant and the admiral. Recalling that the midshipman had the post of honour in receiving the Spaniard's surrender he called upon the young gentleman to reply.

  Drinkwater was barely aware of what was required of him, but he was suddenly aware of Morris staring at him from the far side of the table with an evil grin upon his face. The face seemed to grow larger, terrifying in its size, oppressive with malice. Conversation died as all turned to stare at him. He was confused. He remembered a succession of his seniors standing in turn and he rose unsteadily to his feet. For a moment or two he stood there swaying slightly. The bored expression of the flag lieutenant changed to one of sudden interest at the prospect of a neat gaffe with which to entertain his fashionable friends.

  Drinkwater stared out through the stern windows to where the last shreds of daylight flared above the horizon. Morris's face faded and that of his mother swam before him. He remembered her preparing his sea-kit, sewing a table cloth for her son to use at sea. It lay hidden and unused at the bottom of his chest. It bore a motto. That motto sprang into his midshipman's mind now and he uttered it in a loud, commanding voice:

  'Confusion to the k
ing's enemies!' He said it all in one breath and without a slur. He sat down abruptly as a roar of assent went round the table. The flag lieutenant resumed his bored expression.

  He vaguely heard Kempenfelt's approbatory comment: 'Damme Captain, a real fire eater!'

  Chapter Seven

  The Duel

  June — July 1780

  On awakening next morning Drinkwater had only the haziest notions of turning in the previous night. He was not sure at what hour the Admiral had left for after his toast the evening had become a blur. The blue and white uniforms, the gold braid and pink faces seemed shrouded in more than tobacco smoke. Wheeler's scarlet coat and glittering gorget had glowed like a surrogate sun in the candlelight as they joked and laughed and became serious again. The conversation had turned on a variety of topics; had been general, then particular; bawdy then technical as the portions of the table concentrated, divided then joined again in a verbal tide.

  The event had been a triumph for Henry Hope. As a crowning to the evening Blackmore had suggested a little music and word was passed for O'Malley. The diminutive Irish cook entered, stealing sidelong glances at the ruins of the meal and the empty bottles. He produced some sweet and melancholic airs after the fashion of the time which brought an appreciative silence to the table. He concluded to loud applause with a frantic jig from his native land which, drawn from the wild turbulence of his people, seemed to Drinkwater to summarise the exhilaration of that Moonlight Battle in which these genial fellows had taken such a part.

  Little O'Malley had gone forward two guineas better off with a farewell whose obsequiousness was not that of sobriety but suggested that, in the course of roasting the very capons whose ruins he had so enviously regarded, he had partaken of 'pusser's dips'.