Drinkwater was pushed along the deck, given a pannikin of green water from the scuttle butt and shoved alongside a marine pulling the aftermost larboard sweep. The man was Hagan. He was running with sweat as the rigging dripped with foggy dew.
Hagan grunted a welcome and Drinkwater grasped the loom of the sweep. It was slippery with the blood and plasma of the man he had relieved. Within a quarter of an hour Drinkwater knew why the privateer was under sweeps. The progress through the fog was an advantage to the American commander but it was also the most efficient way of exhausting the British. An exhausted prize crew would not attempt further resistance.
After an hour Drinkwater had reached a state of physical numbness that utterly overpowered him. He had ceased to feel the mate's starter. His head throbbed but his brain had ceased to function. It was Hagan who roused him from his torpor. The marine sergeant hissed between clenched teeth, 'Breeze comin'.'
Drinkwater raised his head and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.
A catspaw rippled the greasy surface of the sea. The sun was brighter now, warmer. He had no idea of the time nor of how long he had been semi-conscious. The fog began to disperse. Imperceptibly at first, wind and sunshine broke through the murk.
An hour later there was a breeze. Light and fitful, it steadied to become a north westerly air. From a zephyr it graduated to a breeze and the American commander ordered the sweeps inboard and the sails hoisted. Before they were herded below into the fo'c's'le Drinkwater was aware that Algonquin was headed south-east for he had heard the helm order. As the hatch closed over the British the schooner heeled and the water of the Channel hissed past her washboards with increasing speed.
Chapter Nine
A Turning of Tables
August 1780
The British prize crew aboard the Algonquin were in a pathetic state. It had been evening when the Americans had retaken their ship. All that night the British had swept the craft south, away from the Cornish coast. It was the following dawn when the midshipman, recovering consciousness, had been forced on deck. By the time the breeze sprang up the day was far advanced.
In the stinking fo'c's'le the British sprawled in all attitudes of exhausted abandon. After a while the eyes adjusted to the darkness and Drinkwater could see the men asleep. He looked for Grattan. The man tossed restlessly, his eyes staring. He was the only other man awake. Another, whose name Drinkwater did not know, was dead. His head had been injured and dried blood blackened his face. He lay stiff, his mouth open, emitting a silent cry that would echo forever. Drinkwater shivered.
Grattan was muttering incoherently for the pain of his arm had brought on a fever.
At noon the hatch was shoved open. A pan of thin soup, some biscuit and water were lowered down. The hatch was being closed again when Drinkwater roused himself and called, 'We've a dead man down here.'
The hatch stopped and the silhouette of a man's head and shoulders was visible against the sky.
'So?' he drawled.
'Will you permit him to be taken on deck?' There was a pause.
'He's one of yours. You brought him: you keep him.' A gobbet of spittle flew down and the hatch slammed shut.
The exchange had woken the men. They made for the food, improvising means of eating it, dunking the biscuit and sucking it greedily.
After a while Sergeant Hagan crawled over to the midshipman.
'Beg pardon, Mr Drinkwater, but 'ave you any orders?'
'Eh? What's that?' Drinkwater was uncomprehending.
'Mr Price is dead. You're in charge, sir.'
Drinkwater looked at the quartermasters and the marines. They were all older than him. They had all been at sea longer than he had. Surely they were not expecting him to…? He looked at Hagan. Hagan with twenty-odd years of sea-soldiering to his credit, Hagan with his bragging stories of service under Hawke and Boscawen, Hagan with his resource and courage…
But Hagan was looking at him. Drinkwater's mouth opened to protest his unsuitability. He had not the slightest idea what to do. He closed it again.
Hagan came to his rescue.
'Right lads, Mr Drinkwater wants a roll-call,' he said, 'so let's see how many of us there are… Right…' Hagan coughed, 'Marines speak up!' Apart from the sergeant there were five marines left.
'Quartermasters?' The two quartermasters were both still alive and unwounded.
'Bosun's mates?' There was silence.
'Seamen?' Eleven voices were eventually identified, one of whom complained of a sprained ankle.
Hagan turned to Drinkwater. 'That's… er, counting yerself, sir, that's exactly a score, though one is unfit, sir…' Hagan seemed to think that this round figure represented some triumph for the British.
'Thank you, Sergeant,' Drinkwater managed, unconsciously aping Devaux in his diction. He wondered what was next expected of him. Hagan asked:
'Where d'ye think they mean to take us, sir?'
Drinkwater was about to snap that he had not the faintest idea when he remembered the helm orders as he left the deck.
'South-east,' he said. Recalling the chart he repeated their course and added their destination. 'South-east, to France…'
'Aye,' said one of the quartermasters, 'The bloody rebels have found some fine friends with the frog-eating Johnny Crapos. They'll be takin' us to Morlaix or St Malo…'
Hagan spoke again. His simple words came like a cold douche to Drinkwater. Hagan was the fighter, Hagan the expediter of plans. Hagan would not shrink from a physical task once that task had been assigned to him. But he looked to the quality to provide the ideas. To him Drinkwater, in his half-fledged manhood, represented the quality. In the general scheme of things it was assumed a person of Drinkwater's rank automatically had the answer. He was what was known on a King's ship as a 'young gentleman'.
'What do we do, sir?'
Drinkwater's mouth flapped open again. Then he collected himself and spoke, realising their plight was hourly more desperate.
'We retake the ship!'
A pathetically feeble, yet strangely gratifying, cheer went round the men.
Drinkwater went on, gaining confidence as he strung his thoughts together.
'Every mile this ship covers takes her nearer to France and you all know what that means…' There was a morose grumble that indicated they knew only too well. '…There are nineteen fit men here against what?… about three dozen Americans? Does anyone know approximately how many were killed on deck?'
A speculative buzz arose, indicative of rising morale.
'Lots went down when the lieutenant fired the gun, sir…' Drinkwater recognised Sharples's voice. In the bustle of events he had forgotten all about Sharples and his being in the prize crew. He was oddly comforted by the man's presence. '…and we fixed a few, you did for one, sir…' admiration was clear in the man's voice.
Hagan interrupted. It was a sergeant's business to estimate casualties. 'I'd say we did for a dozen, Mr Drinkwater… say three dozen left.' Grunts of agreement came from the men.
'Right, three dozen it is,' Drinkwater continued. An idea had germinated in his brain. 'They're armed, we're not. We're in the fo'c's'le which is sealed from the rest of the ship. It was the one place we chose to put them.' He paused.
'They got out because they made a plan long before we took them. As a… er… contingency… I heard the American captain tell Lieutenant Price he would retake his ship. It was almost like a boast. I've heard Americans have a reputation for boasting…' A desperate cackle that passed for a laugh emanated from the gloomy darkness.
Hagan interrupted again. 'But I don't see how this helps us, sir. They got out.'
'Yes, Mr Hagan. They got out by using their plan. They were model prisoners until they had made their arrangements. They lulled us until the last possible moment then they took back their ship. If we hadn't run into fog we might have been under the lee of the Lizard by now…' he paused again, collecting his thoughts, his heart thumping at the possibility…
'
Someone told me these Yankee ships were mostly made of softwood and liable to rot.' A murmur of agreement came from one or two of the older hands.
'Perhaps we could break through the bulkhead or deck into the hold, and work our way aft. Then we could turn the tables on them…'
There was an immediate buzz of interest. Hagan, however was unconvinced and adopted an avuncular attitude. 'But, Nat lad, if we can do that why didn't the Yankees?'
'Aye, aye,' said several voices.
But Drinkwater was convinced it was their only hope. 'Well I'm not sure,' he replied, 'but I think they didn't want to raise our suspicions by any noise. It is going to be difficult for us… Anyway, if I am right they already had a plan worked out which relied on us behaving in a predictable manner. Now we've got to better them. Let's start searching for somewhere to begin.'
In the darkness it took them an hour to find a weak, spongy plank in the deck of the fo'c's'le. Hagan produced the answer to their lack of tools by employing his boots. The joke this produced raised morale still further, for the booted marines, the unpopular policemen of a man o'war, were the butt of many a barefoot sailor's wit.
Hagan smashed in enough to get a hand through, timing his kicks to coincide with the plunging of the Algonquin's bow into the short Channel seas. For the wind veered and the schooner was laid well over, going to windward like a thoroughbred. Regularly and rhythmically she thumped into each wave and as she did so she disguised the noise of demolition.
The deck lifted easily once an aperture had been made. Access was swiftly gained to the cable tier below. Drinkwater descended himself.
The schooner's cable lay on a platform of wooden slats. Beneath these the swirl and rush of bilge water revealed a passage aft. It was totally dark below but, doing his best to ignore the stench, he pressed on driven by desperation. He wriggled over the coils of rope and in one corner, unencumbered by cable he found the athwartships bulkhead that divided the forepart of the ship from the hold. Here he found the slatting broken and ill-fitting.
He had to get aft of the bulkhead. He struggled down in the corner, worming his way beneath the cable tier platform where they failed to meet the ship's side properly. Something ran over his foot. He shuddered in cold terror, never having mastered a fear of rats. Fighting back his nausea he lowered himself into the bilge water. Its cold stink rose up on his legs and lapped at his genitals. For a long moment he hung poised, the malodorously filthy water clammily disgusting him. Then a strange, detached feeling came over him: as if he watched himself. In that moment he gained strength to go on. Continuing his immersion Nathaniel Drinkwater finally forsook adolescence.
Algonquin was on the larboard tack, leaning to starboard. By sheer good fortune Drinkwater's descent was on the larboard side. There was therefore a greater amount of water to starboard and a 'dry' space for him to cling to. Even so it was slippery with stinking slime. He could see nothing, and yet his eyes stared apprehensively into darkness. All his senses were alert, that of smell almost overpowered by the stench of the bilge. But although he gagged several times he was possessed now by an access of power that drove him relentlessly on, ignoring his bodily weaknesses, impelled by his will.
He moved aft over each of Algonquin's timbers. Eventually he found what he hardly dared hope he would discover. The schooner's builders had not constructed the pine planking of the bulkhead down to the timbers. It extended to cross 'floors' which supported the 'ceiling' that formed the bottom of the hold. Between that and the ship's skin a small bilge space ran the length of the vessel.
Drinkwater continued aft. Having eventually completed his reconnaissance he began to return to his fellow prisoners. He was excited so that twice he slipped, once going into the foul water up to his chest, but at last he wriggled back into the fo'c's'le. The men were expectantly awaiting his return. They offered him a pull at the water pannikin which he accepted gratefully. Then he looked round the barely discernible circle of faces.
'Now my lads,' he said with new-found authority, 'this is what we'll do…'
Captain Josiah King, commander of the privateer Algonquin, sat in the neat stern cabin of his schooner drinking a looted bottle of Malmsey. He would be in Morlaix by morning if the wind did not veer again. There he could disencumber himself of these British prisoners. He shuddered at the recollection of losing his ship, but as quickly consoled himself with his own forethought. The contingency plan had worked well — the British lieutenant had been a fool. The British always were. King had been with Whipple when the Rhode Islanders burnt the Government schooner Gapée, back in '72. He remembered her captain, Lieutenant Duddingstone, acting the hero waving a sword about. A thrust in the groin soon incapacitated him. They had cast the unfortunate lieutenant adrift in a small boat. King smiled at the memory. When the magistrates eventually examined the cause of the burning the entire population of the town protested ignorance. King knew every spirited man in Newport had answered Whipple's summons. The American smiled again.
Burgoyne had been a fool too with his clap-trap about honourable terms of surrender. Never mind that Gates had promised his army a safe-conduct to the coast. The British had surrendered and then been locked up for their pains. That was what war was about: winning. Simply that and nothing else.
Warmed by recollection and wine he did not hear the slight scuffle of feet in the alleyway outside…
Drinkwater's plan worked perfectly. They had waited until well after dark. By this time such food as the Americans allowed them had been consumed. Each fit man was detailed off to follow in order and keep in contact with the man ahead.
The midshipman led the way. The wind had eased and Algonquin heeled less. The passage of the bilge was foul. Rats scrabbled out of their way, squealing a protest into the darkness, but no one complained. The filthy fo'c's'le was stinking with the corpse's corruption and their own excrement. Activity, even in a malodorous bilge, was preferable to the miasma of death prevailing in their cramped quarters.
When he reached the after end of the hold Drinkwater moved out to the side. Here there were gratings that ran round the schooner's lazarette. The wooden powder magazine was set in the centre of the ship with the catwalk all around. This was decked with the gratings that now barred their passage. Upon these the gunner's mates walked round tending the lanterns that, shining through glass, safely illuminated the gunner within and enabled him to make up his cartridges.
Sergeant Hagan followed Drinkwater. Between them they lifted a grating and got through. Men followed silently. They were still in darkness but a faint current of air told where a small hatch led on deck at the top of a panelled trunking. It was locked. Drinkwater and Hagan felt round the space. Behind the ladder they found a door that led into the after quarters. It too was locked.
Hagan swore. They knew that once they were through that door they had a fair chance of success. In there were the officers' quarters. On either side of the alleyway beyond there were a couple of cabins and at the end, athwart the ship, the stern cabin. If they failed to capture the deck possession of the after quarters would probably result in the capture of an officer who might be useful as a hostage. But the door was secured against them.
Drinkwater dared not rattle the lock. In the darkness he could hear his men breathing. They all relied on him; what could he do now? He felt the hot tears of frustrated anger begin to collect and he was for the first time thankful for the darkness.
'Beg pardon, sir…?' A voice whispered.
'Yes?'
'Locked door, sir?'
'Yes.' He replied without hope.
'Let me have a look, sir.'
There was a pushing and a shoving. A man came past. There was a silence as eighteen men held their breath, the creaking of the schooner and hiss of the sea seemed inaudible. Then a faint click was heard.
A man shoved back into the queue.
'Try it now, sir.'
Drinkwater found the handle and turned it very slowly. The door gave. He pulled it to again. 'What
's your name?'
'Best you don't know it sir.'
There was a muffled snigger. The man was doubtless one of Cyclops's many thieves. With the scum of London pressed in her crew it was not surprising. Nevertheless the man's nefarious skill had saved the situation.
'Are you ready?' Drinkwater enquired generally in a loud whisper.
'Aye! Aye!…' The replies were muffled but nothing could disguise their eagerness.
Drinkwater opened the door. He made directly for the companionway. Hagan and the marine behind him made for the arms chest outside the stern cabin. Alternately a marine and a seaman emerged blinking into the dimly lit alleyway. The marines armed themselves with the cutlasses Hagan thrust at them; then in pairs they burst into the cabins. They took Josiah King before the Rhode Islander's feet hit the deck. His flimsy cabin door was dashed to matchwood and Hagan, his face contorted into a furious grimace presented the point of a cutlass to King's chest.
Drinkwater dashed on deck. His heart was pounding and fear leant a ferocity to him. The companionway emerged on deck abaft a skylight that let on to the passageway. Fortunately for the British a canvas cover was pulled over this to prevent the light disturbing the helmsman. But the helmsman stood immediately aft of the hatch, behind the binnacle. He leant against the huge tiller, straining with the effort of maintaining weather helm.
The mate on deck was a little further forward but he turned at the helmsman's exclamation. Drinkwater ran full tilt at the mate, knocking him over. The two men behind him secured the helmsman. He was tossed howling over the stern while the next man grabbed the tiller so that Algonquin scarcely faltered on her course.
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