Old Blackmore, the sailing master, observed all and said little. He found these peevish King's Officers, deprived of their twopence prize money and behaving like old maids, distasteful ship-mates. Bred in a hard school he expected to be uncomfortable at sea and was rarely disappointed.
Mr Surgeon Appleby, ever the philosopher, shook his head sadly over his blackstrap. He ruminated on the condition of the ship to anyone who cared to listen.
'You see, gentlemen, about you the natural fruits of man's own particular genius: Corruption.' He enunciated the word with a professional relish as if sniffing an amputated stump, seeking gangrene. 'Corruption is a process arrived at after a period of growing and maturation. Medically speaking it occurs after death, whether in the case of an apple which had fallen from the bough and no longer receives sustenance from the tree, or, in the case of the human body which corrupts irrevocably after the heart has ceased to function. In both cases the span of time may be seen as a complete cycle.
'But in the case of spiritual corruption, I assure you, the process is faster and independent of the heart. Observe our noble ship's company. A pride of lions in battle…' Appleby paused to fortify his monologue with blackstrap. '…They are corrupted by the foetid atmosphere of a frigate.
'Sit down, Mr Drinkwater, sit down and remember this when you are an Admiral. As a consequence all manner of evils appear; drunkenness, quarrelling, insubordination, sodomy, theft, and worst of all, for it is a crime against God and not merely man, discontent. And what nurtures that discontent?'
'Why prize money!'
'What damned prize money, Bones?' interrupted Lieutenant Keene.
'Exactly my friend. What prize money? You won it. You were awarded it, but where the deuce is it? Why, lining the pockets of Milor' Sandwich and his Tory toadies. Someone is growing fat on merely the interest. God's blood they too are as corrupted as this stinking ship. I tell you, gentlemen, this will rebound upon them one day. One day it will not only be the damned Yankees that defy their Lordships but Tom Bowline and Jack Rattlin…'
'Aye and Harry Appleby!' shouted a voice.
A bored laugh drifted round the gloom of the gunroom. Cyclops plunged into a sea and expletives exploded in short, exasperated grunts from several voices.
'Who'd be a god-damned sailor?'
To Drinkwater these weeks were less painful than to most. It is true he dreamed of Elizabeth but his love did not oppress him. Rather it sustained him. Blackmore was delighted that he had acquired his certificate from Calvert and tutored him in some of the more abstruse mysteries of celestial navigation. He also struck up a firm friendship with Lieutenant Wheeler of the Marines. Whenever the weather moderated sufficiently to allow it Wheeler and Drinkwater engaged in fencing practice. The frequent sight of his 'enemy' thus engaged was a painful reminder of his humiliation to Morris; and the longer Drinkwater seemed immune from Morris the more the latter wished to revenge himself upon the younger man. Morris began to form his earlier alliances with like-minded men amongst the least desirable elements of Cyclops's company.
Only this time there was more purpose to the cabal. Morris was degenerating into a psychopathic creature to whom reality was blurred, and in whom hatred burned with a flame as potent as love.
Christmas and New Year came and went almost unnoticed as they can only at sea. It was a dull day in the middle of January before any event occurred to break the monotony of life aboard the frigate.
'Sail Ho!'
'Where away?'
'Lee beam, sir!' Lieutenant Skelton sprung into the mizen rigging and levelled his glass. Jumping down he turned to Drinkwater. 'Mr Drinkwater!'
'M'compliments to the Captain and there's a sail to starboard, might be a frigate.'
Drinkwater went below. Hope was asleep, dozing in his cot when the midshipman's knock woke him. He hurried on deck.
'Call all hands, Mr Skelton, and bear away to investigate.'
A topsail was clearly visible now, white as a gull's wing against a squall, for a grey overcast obscured what sun there was. Occasionally a fleeting glimpse of a pale lemon orb appeared which Blackmore patiently strove to capture in the horizon glass of his quadrant. The two ships closed rapidly and after an hour came up with one another.
Recognition signals revealed the other to be friendly and she turned out to be Galatea. The newcomer hove to under Cyclops's lee and a string of bright bunting appeared at her foremasthead.
'Signal, sir,' said Drinkwater flicking the pages of the codebook, 'Repair on board.'
Hope bridled. 'Who does Edgecumbe think he is, damn him!'
Devaux suppressed a smile as Wheeler muttered sotto voce: 'A Tory Member of Parliament, perhaps…'
After a little delay, just long enough for it to be impertinent, Hope snapped, 'Very well, acknowledge!'
'Your gig, sir?' asked the solicitous Devaux.
'Don't smirk, sir!' rasped Hope irritably.
'Beg pardon, sir,' replied Devaux still smiling.
'Huh!' Hope turned away furious. Edgecumbe was a damned, worthless time-server half Hope's age. Hope had as much time as lieutenant to his credit as Edgecumbe had time at sea.
'Gig's ready, sir.'
Drinkwater laid the gig alongside Galatea. He watched his captain's spindly legs disappear to a twittering of pipes. A face looked down at him.
'Moornin' lad.' It was Lieutenant Collingwood.
'Morning sir.'
'I see you have clean ducks on today,' the officer smiled before bursting into a violent and debilitating fit of coughing. When he had caught his breath he held out a bundle wrapped in oiled paper.
'I have some mail for Cyclops,' he called, 'I believe there's an epistle from a Miss Bower…'
Elizabeth!
'Thank you, sir…' answered the delighted and surprised Drinkwater as the bundle was tossed into the boat. Collingwood began coughing again. It was the tuberculosis that a posting to the West Indies would shortly aggravate and which eventually killed Wilfred Collingwood. It was his brother Cuthbert who became Nelson's famous second-in-command.
Elizabeth!
Strange how the mention of her name out here on the heaving grey Atlantic had the power to cause his heart to thump in his breast. The man at stroke oar was grinning at him. He smiled back selfconsciously. Then he realised the man was Threddle.
In Galatea's stern cabin Hope was sipping a glass of excellent claret. But he was not enjoying it.
Sir James Edgecumbe, his prematurely florid face and pop-eyes a contrast to Hope's thin, leathery countenance, was trying to be pleasantly superior and only succeeded in being offensive.
'I shall overlook the slackness in acknowledging my signal as due to the quality of your midshipmen, Captain. I had the experience of meeting one of 'em. A snotty boy with filthy garments. Clearly no gentleman, eh Captain?' He snorted a contemptuous laugh that was intended to imply that as captains they had problems only appreciated by other commanders. Hope bridled at the insult to Cyclops, wondering who the offending middy had been. He said nothing beyond a grunt, which Edgecumbe took for agreement.
'Yes, well, m'dear fella, the problem of rank, don't you know.'
Hope said nothing. He was beginning to suspect Sir James of having an ulterior motive in summoning him.
'Well, as I say, Captain, problems of rank and exigencies of the Service. I'm not helped by m'parliamentary duties either, b'God. Makes m'life in the public service a most arduous task I do assure ye.
'This leads me to a question, m'dear fella. How much food and water have ye?'
'About two months' provisions I suppose, but if you're relieving me I don't see…'
Edgecumbe held up his hand.
'Ah, there's the rub, m'dear fella. I'm not you see…' Edgecumbe interrupted.
'More wine? At least,' he said slowly in a harder voice, an edge of malice in it, '…at least I don't intend to.' Hope swallowed.
'Are you trying to tell me something unpalatable, Sir James?'
Edgecu
mbe relaxed and smiled again. 'Yes m'dear Captain. I would deem it a great favour if you would relieve me of a rather odious and fruitless task. In fact m'dear fella,' he lowered his voice confidentially, 'I have to be in Parliament shortly to support the Naval vote and one or two other measures. In these times every patriot should do his utmost. Don't you agree Captain. And I'm best serving my country, and you brave fellas, by strengthening the navy.' He dropped the sham and the note of menace was again detectable. 'It wouldn't do either of us any good if I missed it, now would it?' Hope did not like the inflections in Edgecumbe's speech.
He had the feeling he was being boxed into a corner.
'I trust Sir James that you will do your utmost to ensure that ships like Foudroyant, Emerald and Royal George are properly dry-docked…' Edgecumbe waved his hands inconsequentially.
'Those are mere details, Captain Hope, there are competent authorities in the dockyards to deal with such matters…'
Hope bit off an acidic reply as, from nowhere, the servant of Sir James appeared with a new bottle of claret. Edgecumbe avoided Hope's eyes and sorted through some papers. He looked up with a smile and held out a sealed envelope.
'Life's full of coincidences, eh Captain? This,' he tapped the envelope, 'is a draft, I believe, on Tavistock's Banking House. Had a bit of luck with prizes I hear, well, well, my wife's a daughter of old Tavistock. He's a mean old devil but I expect he'll honour an Admiralty draft for £4,000.'
Hope swallowed the contents of his glass. He swore mentally. Righteous indignation was no weapon to use against this sort of thing. He wondered how many people had connived to get this little scene to run its prescribed course? So that he, Henry Hope, should do something unpleasant on behalf of Sir James in order that the latter should occupy his seat in Parliament. Or worse, perhaps Sir James had other reasons for not carrying out his orders. Hope felt sick and swallowed another glass of claret.
'I presume you have my change of orders in writing, Sir James,' Hope asked suspiciously although he already knew he would be compelled to accept the inevitable.
'Of course! Did you suspect that I was acting unofficially, m'dear sir?' Edgecumbe's eyebrows were raised in outrage.
'Not at all, Sir James,' replied Hope with perfect honesty. 'Only there are occasions when one doubts the wisdom of their Lordships…'
Edgecumbe looked up sharply. Hope found the suspicion of treason vastly amusing. Edgecumbe held out another envelope.
'Your orders, Captain Hope,' he said with asperity.
'And the odious and fruitless task, Sir James?'
'Ah!' breathed Edgecumbe, reaching for a strong box that had all the while been lurking by his chair.
In the cockpit the single lantern swayed with Cyclops's violent motion. Its guttering flame cast fitful and fantastic shadows that made reading difficult. Drinkwater had waited until it was Morris's watch on deck. He had a vague feeling that if he attempted to read Elizabeth's letter in his presence it would somehow sully his image of her. For, although Morris had made no attempt to reassert himself as Drinkwater's superior, Nathaniel knew instinctively that Morris was playing a waiting game, covertly watching his fellow midshipman, probing for an opening that he could exploit. Reading Elizabeth's letter in his presence would almost certainly afford him some such opportunity.
Drinkwater opened the little package. Inside was a second packet and a letter. The letter was dated a few days after his departure from Falmouth.
My Dear Nathaniel,
Lieutenant Collingwood had just come to say that he believes his frigate will be meeting Cyclops early in the New Year. He came to settle the account for your (sic) funeral and when father said that it should be borne by your own ship he said he would reimburse himself when he met your Captain.
Drinkwater bit his lip, annoyed that he had not thought of that himself. He read on,
All of which is a poor way of wishing you well. I hope you like the enclosure, father tells me you sea officers are inordinately vain of your first commands. It was done the morning after your first visit, but I did not think it good enough to give you before.
We have news that we shall move to Portsmouth in April and I pray that you will visit us there. Please God that you are unscathed by battle or disease, for I fear your Service uses men barbarously as poor Lieutenant Collingwood's cough testifies.
The weather had turned now and we expect a miserable winter. Father says prayers regularly now for the Navy. Now I must conclude in haste for L. Collingwood is just leaving.
God bless you,
Ever yours,
Elizabeth.
Drinkwater read the letter four times before opening the packet.
Inside, set in a small frame was a tiny water colour. It showed a sheet of water set round by green shores and the grey bastion of a castle. In the foreground was a ship, a little dark schooner with British over Yankee colours.
'Algonquin,' he muttered aloud, holding the picture to the lantern. 'Algonquin off St Mawes…'
He tucked the picture safely in the bottom of his sea-chest, scrambled into his hammock and re-read Elizabeth's letter.
Elizabeth wished him safe and well. Perhaps Elizabeth loved him.
He lay basking in the inner warmth the news gave him. A kind of bursting laughter exploded somewhere inside his chest. A feeling of superhuman triumph and tenderness welled up within him, so that he chuckled softly to himself as Cyclops creaked to windward in the gale.
The month of January 1781 was one of almost continuous bad weather in the North Atlantic. The 'families' of depressions that tracked obliquely across that great expanse of water dashed a French fleet to pieces on the rock-girt coasts of the Channel Islands. Two thousand French soldiers had embarked to capture the islands but hundreds perished as their troopships were smashed to bits. Eight hundred who got ashore at St Helier almost succeeded in taking the town until twenty-six year old Major Pearson led a desperate bayonet charge in which the French were routed but the young man lost his life.
But it was not only the French fleet that had suffered. Earlier, in October of 1780, Rodney's West Indies Fleet had been virtually destroyed in a hurricane. Most of Hotham's squadron had been dismasted and six ships lost. Although Sir Samuel Hood was even then proceeding to Rodney's aid, things were going ill for British arms. The situation in North America, handled in a dilatory fashion by Lord North and Lord George Germaine, had become critical. None of the principals were to know it at the time but the combination of the Franco-American armies around an obscure peninsula on the James River in Virginia was to prove decisive. As Lord Cornwallis fought his way through the swamps and barrens of Carolina with a pathetically small army, Nathaniel Greene opposing him, 'fought and ran, fought and ran again', slowly exhausting the British who staggered from one Pyrrhic victory after another in ever diminishing numbers.
In Gibraltar Augustus Elliot and his little garrison held out whilst Cyclops suffered the battering of the elements, herself like a half-tide rock.
Topgallant masts were struck and twice the frigate drove off before the wind heading back towards the Europe that Hope strove to leave astern, bound as he was for the coast of Carolina.
Life between decks had resumed its dismal round so familiar to the ship's company. Damp permeated every corner until fungi grew freely and men sickened with lassitude and discomfort. Once again the lash was employed with nauseating regularity. The men became surly and the atmosphere thick with discontent.
In this climate it was not only the spores of floral parasites that flourished. Such conditions seemed to release the latent energies of Midshipman Morris, perhaps because the ship was less efficiently policed, perhaps because in the prevailing environment men were less interested in reminding him of previous humiliation.
Morris's position as the senior midshipman was a puissant one, and young White was the chief recipient of Morris's unpleasantness. No sarcasm was too trifling but the opportunity must be taken to hurt the hapless child, for his voice had not
yet broken and as yet no hair grew upon his upper lip. He was made to 'fag' for Morris, although the latter was careful not to make this too obvious in either Drinkwater's or Cranston's presence. This treatment served chiefly to terrorise the weak into a cringing obsequiousness that may possibly have served them well if they entered public life, but was no training for the officers of a man o'war.
One night, black and blue from a beating by Morris, the unfortunate White had lain unable to sleep. Tears had come to him and he lay quietly sobbing in the subterranean blackness of the cockpit.
On deck it had come on to rain. Drinkwater slipped below for his tarpaulin and found the boy weeping. For a moment he stood listening in the darkness, then, remembering Morris discovering him in identical circumstances, he went over to the boy.
'What's the matter, Chalky?' be enquired softly. 'Are you sick?'
'N-no, sir.'
'Don't "sir" me, Chalky… it's me, Nat… what's the matter?'
'Nnn… nothing, Nnn… Nat… it's nothing.'
It was not very difficult for Nathaniel to guess the person responsible for the boy's misery, but it was a measure of his worldliness that he assumed the crime fouler than mere bullying.
'Is it Morris, Chalky?'
The silence from the hammock had an eloquence of its own.
'It is isn't it?'
A barely perceptible 'Yes' came out of the gloom.
Drinkwater patted a thin and shaking shoulder. 'Don't worry, Chalky, I'll fix him.'
'Thanks… N… Nat,' the boy choked and as Drinkwater crept away he heard a barely audible whisper: 'Oh mmm… mother…'
Returning to duty Nathaniel Drinkwater received a rebuke from Lieutenant Skelton for leaving the deck.
The following day was Sunday and after divine service the watch below were piped to dinner. Drinkwater found himself at mess with Morris. Several other midshipmen were in the cockpit struggling with their salt pork. One of them was Cranston.
Drinkwater swallowed the remains of his blackstrap and then addressed Morris in tones of deliberate formality.
'Mr Morris, as you are senior midshipman in this mess I have a request to make.'
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