An Eye of the Fleet nd-1

by Richard Woodman

  Morris looked up. A warning sounded in his brain as he recalled the last time Drinkwater had uttered such formal words to him. Although he had scarcely exchanged any word with his enemy beyond the minimum necessary to the conduct of the vessel he regarded Drinkwater with suspicion.

  'Well what is it?'

  'Simply that you cease your abominable tyranny over young White.'

  Morris stared at Drinkwater. He flushed, then began casting angrily about.

  'Why the damned little tell-tale, wait till I get hold of him…' he rose, but Drinkwater objected.

  'He told me nothing Morris, but I'm warning you: leave him alone…'

  'Ah, so you fancy him do you… like that fancy tart you've got at Falmouth…'

  Drinkwater hadn't expected that. Then he remembered Threddle in the boat and the letter lying in his sea-chest… for a second he was silent. It was too long. He had lost the initiative.

  'And what will you do, Mister bloody Drinkwater?' Morris was threatening him now.

  'Thrash you as I did before…' maintained Drinkwater stoutly.

  'Thrash me, be damned you had a cudgel…'

  'We both had single st…' Drinkwater never finished the sentence. Morris's fist cracked into his jaw and he fell backwards. His head hit the deck. Morris leapt on him but he was already unconscious.

  Morris stood up. Revenge was sweet indeed but he had not yet finished with Drinkwater. No, a more private and infinitely more malevolent fate would be visited on him, but for the present Morris was content… he had at least re-established his superiority over the bastard.

  Morris dusted himself off and turned to the other midshipmen.

  'Now you other bastards. Remember ye'll get the same treatment if you cross me.'

  Cranston had not moved but remained seated, his grog in his hand. He brought the patient wisdom of the lower deck to confound Morris.

  'Are you threatening me, Mr Morris?' he asked in level tones, 'because if you are I shall report you to the first lieutenant. Your attack on Mr Drinkwater was unprovoked and constituted an offence for which you would flog a common seaman. I sincerely hope you have not fatally injured our young friend, for if you have I shall ensure you pay the utmost penalty the Articles of War permit.'

  Morris grew as pallid as Cyclops's topsail. Such a long speech from a normally silent man delivered with such sonorous gravity gripped him with visceral fear. He looked anxiously at the prostrate Drinkwater.

  Cranston turned to one of the other occupants of the mess. 'Mr Bennett, be so good as to cut along for the surgeon!'

  'Yes, yes, of course…' The boy dashed out.

  Morris stepped towards Drinkwater but Cranston forestalled him. 'Get out!' he snapped with unfeigned anger.

  Appleby entered the midshipmen's berth with a worried Bennett behind him. Cranston was already chafing the unconscious midshipman's wrists.

  Appleby felt the pulse, 'What occurred?' he enquired.

  Cranston outlined the circumstances. Appleby lifted the eyelid.

  'Mmmmmm… lend a hand…' Between them they got Drinkwater propped up and the latter held some smelling salts under the patient's nose.

  Drinkwater groaned and Appleby felt around the base of the skull. 'He'll have a headache but he'll mend.' Another groan escaped Drinkwater's lips and his eyelids fluttered open, closed and opened again.

  'Oh God, what the…'

  'Easy, lad, easy. You've received a crack on the skull and another on the jaw but you'll live. You midshipmen get him into his hammock for a little while. You'll bear witness to this?' The last remark was addressed to Cranston.

  'Aye if it's necessary,' answered Cranston.

  'I shall have to inform the first lieutenant. It will remain to be seen whether the matter goes further.' Appleby picked up his bag and left.

  Devaux regarded the matter seriously. He was already aware of some doubt as to the exact nature of Midshipman Morris's sexual proclivities and, though he was ignorant as to the extent Morris exerted an influence over certain elements of the ship's company, he realised the man was a danger. With the prevalent sullen atmosphere on board it only needed some stupid incident like this to provoke more trouble. With the rapidity of a bush fire one such outbreak led to another and it was impossible to hush such things up. The unpunished breach of discipline in the midshipman's mess might lead to God knew what horrors. He sought an interview with Captain Hope.

  He found Hope more concerned with their landfall on the coast of the Carolinas than with the future of Mr Midshipman Augustus Morris.

  'Do as you think fit, Mr Devaux,' he said without looking up from the chart, 'now I pray your attention on this chart…'

  For a few moments the two men studied the soundings and coastline.

  'What exactly is our purpose in making a landfall here, sir?' asked Devaux at last.

  Hope looked up at him. 'I suppose you had better be aware of the details of this mission since any mishap to myself necessitates the duty devolving upon yourself… we are to make a landing here…' Hope pointed to the chart.

  We will rendezvous with a detachment of troops at Fort Frederic, probably the British Legion, a provincial corps under Colonel Tarleton. An accredited officer will accept the package in my strong box. In the package are several millions of Continental dollars…'

  Devaux whistled.

  'The Continental Congress,' Hope continued, 'has already debased the credit of its own currency to such a state that the flooding of the markets of rebel areas will ruin all credibility in its own ability to govern, and bring large numbers of the Yankees over to the Loyalist cause. I believe large raids are planned on the Virginny tobacco lands to further ruin the rebel economy.'

  'I see, sir,' mused Devaux. The two men considered the matter, then the younger said, 'It does seem a deucedly odd way of suppressing rebellion, sir.'

  'It does indeed, Mr Devaux, decidedly odd. But my Lord George Germaine, His Majesty's Secretary for the Colonies, seems to be of the opinion that it is infallible.'

  'Ha Germaine!' snorted the indignant Devaux. 'Let's hope he exercises better judgement than at Minden.'

  Hope said nothing. At his age youthful contempt was an expenditure of energy that was entirely fruitless. He took refuge in silent cynicism. Germaine, North, Sandwich, Arbuthnot and Clinton, the naval and military commanders in North America, they were all God's appointed…

  'Thank you Mr Devaux.'

  'Thank you, sir,' replied Devaux picking up his hat and leaving the cabin.

  Morris was below when the first lieutenant summoned him. Ironically it was White who brought the message. Sensing no threat from the boy Morris swaggered out.

  'Sir?'

  'Ah, Mr Morris,' began Devaux considerately, 'I understand there has been some difference of opinion between you and your messmates, is this so, sir?'

  'Well, er, yes as a matter of fact that is so, sir. But the matter is settled, sir.'

  'To your satisfaction I presume,' asked the first lieutenant, scarcely able to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'But not to mine.' Devaux looked hard at Morris. 'Did you strike first?'

  'Well, sir, I, er…'

  'Did you, sir, did you?'

  'Yes, sir,' whispered Morris scarcely audible.

  'Were you provoked?'

  Morris sensed a trap. He could not claim to have been provoked since Cranston would testify against him and that would further militate in his disfavour.

  He contented himself with a sullen shrug.

  'Mr Morris you are a source of trouble on this ship and I ought to break you, never mind stretching your neck under the Twenty-Ninth Article of War…' Morris's face paled and his breath drew in sharply. 'But I shall arrange to transfer you to another ship when we rejoin the fleet. Do not attempt to obtain a berth aboard any ship of which I am first lieutenant or by God I'll have you thrown overboard. In the meantime you will exert no influence in the cockpit, d'ye understand?'


  Morris nodded.

  'Very well, and for now you will ascend the foretopgallant and remain there until I consider your presence on deck is again required.'

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Action with La Creole

  February 1781

  His Britannic Majesty's 36-gun frigate Cyclops was cleared for action, leaning to a stiff south westerly breeze, close hauled on the port tack. To windward the chase was desperately trying to escape. As yet no colours had broken out at her peak but the opinion current aboard Cyclops was that she was American.

  She had the appearance of an Indiaman but cynics reminded their fellows that Captain Pearson had been compelled to surrender to Paul Jones in the Bonhomme Richard. She had been an Indiaman.

  On his quarterdeck Hope silently prayed she would be a merchant ship. If so she would prove an easy prey. If she operated under letters of marque she might prove a tougher nut to crack. What was more important was that Hope wished his arrival on the coast to be secret. Whatever the chase turned out to be Hope wanted to secure her.

  Devaux urged him to hoist French colours but Hope demurred. He had little liking for such deceptions and ordered British colours hoisted. After a while the chase brailed up his courses and broke out the American flag.

  'Ah there! He's going to accept battle. To your posts, gentlemen, this will be warm work. Do you likewise with the courses Mr Blackmore and take the topgallants off her…'

  Shortened down for the ponderous manoeuvres of formal battle, Cyclops closed with her enemy. In the fore-top Drinkwater peered under the leech of the fore-topsail.

  There was something odd about the ship they were approaching.

  'Tregembo… clap your eyes on yon ship… do you notice anything peculiar…?'

  The Cornishman left his swivel and peered to where the enemy vessel lay to, seemingly awaiting the British frigate.

  'No zur… but wait there's siller at her rail no… it's gone now…' He straightened up scratching his head.

  'Did you see flashes of silver?'

  'Aye, zur, leastways I thought I did…'

  Drinkwater looked aft. Cranston in the main-top waved at him and he waved back suddenly making his mind up. He swung himself over into the futtock shrouds.

  On the quarterdeck he bumped into Morris who was now signal midshipman.

  'What the hell are you doing aft?' hissed Morris, 'Get forrard to your station pig!' Drinkwater dodged round him and hovered at Hope's coat tails.

  'Sir! Sir!'

  'What the devil?' Hope and Devaux turned at the intrusion of their vigilant watch on the closing American.

  'Sir, I believe I saw the sun on bayonets from the fore-top…'

  'Bayonets, by God…' Wheeler too whirled at the military word. Then he turned again and clapped his glass to his eye. Briefly visible the sun caught the flash of steel again.

  'Aye bayonets by God, sir! He's a company or two there sir, damned if he hasn't…' exclaimed the marine officer.

  'You'll be damned if he has, sir,' retorted Hope, 'so he wants to grapple and board with infantry… Mr Devaux, lay her off a little and aim for his top hamper.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.' Devaux went off roaring orders.

  'Thank you, Mr Drinkwater, you may return to your station.'

  'Aye, aye, sir…'

  'Lickspittle!' hissed Morris as he passed.

  Hope's assessment had been correct. The enemy ship had indeed been a French Indiaman but was then operating under a commission signed by George Washington himself. Despite her American authority she was commanded by a Frenchman of great daring who had been cruising under the rebel flag since the Americans first appealed for help from the adventurous youth of Europe.

  This officer had on board a part battalion of American militia who, though recently driven out of Georgia by their Loyalist countrymen, had recovered their bravado after receiving a stirring harangue from their ally and were now eager to fire their muskets again.

  Although Hope had correctly assessed his opponent's tactics he was too late to avoid them. As the two vessels opened fire on one another the enemy freed off a little and bore down towards the British ship. As they closed her name was visible across her transom: La Creole.

  La Creole's main yard fouled Cyclops's cro'jack yard and the two vessels came together with a jarring crash. The pounding match already started continued unabated, despite the fact that the gun muzzles almost touched. Already the adjacent bulwarks of the two ships were reduced to a shambles and the deadly splinters were lancing through the smoke laden air. Cyclops's shot had destroyed the enemy's two boats on the gratings and the stray balls and resultant splinters were unnerving the militia. The French commander, knowing delay was fatal, leapt on to the rail and waved the Americans on. His own polyglot crew followed him.

  The tide of boarders swirled downwards over the upper deck gunners and Wheeler brought his after guard of marines forward in a line.

  'Forward! Present! Fire!' They let off a volley and reloaded with the ease of practice, spitting the balls into their muzzles and banging the musket stocks on the deck to avoid the time consuming ritual of the ramrod.

  Back in the foretop Drinkwater discharged the swivel into the throng as it poured aboard. He reloaded then turned to find Tregembo wrestling with a sallow desperado who had appeared from nowhere. Looking up Drinkwater saw more men running like monkeys along the enemy's yards and into Cyclops's rigging. In the main top Cranston was coolly picking off any who attempted to lash the yards of the two ships, but men were coming aboard via the topsail yards and sliding down the forestays in a kind of hellish circus act.

  On the maindeck the gun crews continued to serve their pieces. Occasionally the rammer working at the exposed muzzle would receive a jab from an enemy boarding pike until Devaux ordered the ports closed when reloading. It slowed the rate of fire but made the men attentive and reduced the risk of premature explosions through skimpy sponging. Small arms fire crackled above their heads and a small face appeared at Lieutenant Keene's elbow. It was little White.

  'Sir! Sir! Please allow the starboard gun crews on deck, sir, we are hard pressed…'

  Keene turned. 'Starbowlines!' he roared, 'Boarding pikes and cutlasses!' The order was picked up by the bosun's mates and the men, assisting their mates at the larboard guns, ran for the small arms racks around the masts.

  'Skelton, do you take command here!'

  Keene adjusted the martingale of his hanger on his wrist. Turning to White he managed a lopsided smile, 'Come on young shaver…'

  White pulled out his toy dirk.

  'Starbowlines! Forrard Companionway! Follow me!'

  A ragged cheer broke out, barely audible amid the thunder of the adjacent guns. But it broke into a furious yell as the men emerged onto the sunlit deck where the melee was now desperate. Although the attempts of the rebels to enter Cyclops through the main deck ports had been repulsed, on the upper deck it was a different story. The initial shock of the boarding party had carried them well on to the British frigate's quarterdeck. At the extreme after end Wheeler and his marines were drawn into a line loading and firing behind a precise hedge of bayonets. After a few sallies the boarders drew back and turned their attention to the forward end where the resistance, led by Lieutenant Devaux, was fierce but piecemeal, the seamen and officers defending themselves as best they might.

  Although the American militia were unsteady troops they fought well enough against the seamen and gradually began to overwhelm the defenders. Once the Americans reached the waist in force they could drop down into the gun-deck and their possession of the British frigate was only a matter of time. The fighting was fierce, a confusion of musketry, pistol flashes and slashing blades. Men screamed with rage or pain, officers shouted orders, their voices hoarse with exhaustion or shrill with fear and all the while the two ships discharged their main batteries at each other at point blank range in a continuous cacophony of rumbling concussions, the smoke of which rolled over the frightful business abov
e.

  Poor Bennett, forced over a gun, died of a bayonet wound.

  Stewart, the master's mate, weakened by the consequences of his amorous adventure at Falmouth, parried the French commander's sword but failed to riposte. The Frenchman was quicker and Stewart too fell in his own gore on the bloody deck.

  From the fore-top Drinkwater was uncertain of the progress of the fight below since it was obscured by powder smoke. Between the fore- and main-tops the threat of aerial invasion via the rigging seemed to have been stemmed when Drinkwater heard the yells of Keene's counter attack. He saw them on the American ship where more men were assembling to attack. They sent a case of langridge into the Rebel waist: men fell, dispersed and reassembled. Drinkwater's gun fired again.

  'Two rounds left, zur!' Tregembo shouted in his ear.

  'Blast it!' he shouted back. 'What the hell do we do then?'

  'Dunno zur.' The man looked below. 'Join in down there, zur?' Drinkwater looked down. The gunfire seemed to have eased and the wind cleared some of the smoke. He saw White, his dirk flashing, shoved aside by an American who lunged at a British warrant officer. The master's mate took the thrust on the thigh and the American grimaced as the spurned White stabbed him in the side. Devaux, with his hanger whirling in one hand and a clubbed pistol in the other, was laying about himself like a maniac urging on Keene's men and the remnants of the upper deck gun crews.

  Aft of him Drinkwater saw Cranston out on the main yardarm cutting away any gear that bound the two ships together.

  Of course, they must prise Cyclops away from the rebel ship.

  'We must separate the two ships, Tregembo!'

  'Aye zur, but she'm to wind'ard.'

  It was true. The wind's pressure was holding La Creole's hull alongside Cyclops as efficiently as if they were lashed together. Drinkwater looked below again and his eyes rested on the anchors. Earlier in the day Devaux had had the hands bending a cable to the sheet anchor as they closed the American coast. All they had to do was to let it go.

  'The sheet anchor, Tregembo!' he shouted excitedly, pointing downwards.