There was a rumble of appreciation from the officers assembled round the table and lounging back in their chairs.
'You perceive the outline, gentlemen. The idea hatched by a man cashiered for cowardice after Minden but with a skin as thick as hide… and a changed name to hide under.'
'Sackville by God!' exclaimed Wheeler, ignoring Appleby's pun. 'I had clean forgot. Didn't the King himself strike Sackville off the Army list with an injunction that he was never to serve again in a military capacity?'
'Exactly so, my dear sir, the late king certainly did. And what is this creature now? Why none other than the virtual director of military operations in the Americas, a continent of which he knows nothing. Barré does, but the Government ignores the good colonel. Burke and Foe and Chatham realised, but nobody took any heed of them. So here we are!' Appleby expelled his breath contentedly looking round as if expecting applause.
'You are not quite right about Germaine, Mr Appleby.' Appleby frowned and looked round to see who dared to contradict him. It was Cranston.
'I beg your pardon?' he said archly.
'Lord George Germaine might well be exactly what you say but he has as his Secretary an American Loyalist who is reckoned to be an expert in several fields. His name is Benjamin Thompson.'
'Pah!' retorted Appleby. 'Thompson is his catamite!' Drinkwater had not the slightest notion what a catamite was except that it was clearly something suspect for sniggers and grins appeared on several faces.
'I think, Mr Appleby, that Cranston has a point,' Hope spoke with quiet authority but Appleby was not to be gainsaid.
'I disagree sir.'
'So do I sir. The facts alone speak for themselves. Surely Thompson, if he is the genius he claims to be, knows far more damage can be done the rebels by us arriving off Charleston or New York?' Devaux tried again to manipulate the conversation's direction.
'Ah! There's the rub don't you see,' plunged in Appleby once again. 'Germaine turns to Thompson. "Damme Benjamin,"' he mimicked Germaine's reputedly haughty tones, '"I don't like Clinton, irresolute little fella and that damned traitor Arnold's in his suite, probably playing a double game. Best not send the cash there." Germaine turns to map: "Where shall we send it then Benjamin? To Cornwallis, damme never liked his wall-eyes, or his second, young Rawdon, or that dammed know-all Ferguson…"'
'Ferguson's dead,' Wheeler intoned flatly.
Appleby raised his eyebrows imploringly heaven-ward at the interruption.
'"… no, no that won't do at all, Benjamin. Bring that map nearer; now which bit is Carolina? Ah yes, well how about there!"' Eyes closed Appleby stabbed the damask table cloth with his finger, then opened them and looked down at the imaginary map. '"That will do fine, Benjamin, see to it for it is now five of the clock and I must to the tables for an hour or two's relaxation…" Picks up hat, exeunt.' Appleby sat back at last, smirked and folded his hands across his stomach.
Several officers clapped languidly. They all smiled smugly with the generous contempt sailors reserve for politicians… after all, the smiles seemed to say, what does one expect…
Hope clearly had to dispel such thoughts from the minds of his men. It was an attitude that begot carelessness.
'I find your assessment amusing Mr Appleby, but inaccurate. That Cyclops had been ordered to carry out a part which to us seems incomprehensible is scarcely a new situation in naval war. The whole essence of the naval service is an adherence to orders without which nothing can be achieved…'
'Sir,' said Devaux slowly and deliberately, 'Lieutenant Wheeler has interrogated the negro who surrendered from La Creole. The blackamoor informs us that the Carolinas are in a state of utter confusion with no man knowing who has the upper hand. Lord Cornwallis has insufficient troops to do more than hold a few posts and chase the rebels.'
It was enough for Hope. 'Mr Devaux,' he almost shouted, 'what do you expect a damn nigger to say — he's a rebel. D'ye think he's going to tell us we're winning…?'
But Devaux was equally flushed. 'For God's sake hear me out, sir,' he altercated, 'in the first place he's Loyalist with papers to prove it, and that's no mean achievement considering he's been with the rebels, in the second he's a slave freed by ourselves so hardly likely to sympathise with the rebels and voluntarily submit to slavery, and in the third he's been batman to a lietitenant in the 23rd Foot.'
'And I suppose,' replied Hope sarcastically, 'that you consider all that cast iron proof that every word is true…?' He was really, deeply angry now. Angry with Devaux and Appleby for voicing the doubts in his own heart, angry with himself for submitting so tamely to the blandishments of Edgecumbe and the £4,000 prize money which was not one whit the more use to him on this side of the ocean, and angry with the whole system that had created this ridiculous situation.
'Time will tell, sir, which of us is right…'
'That's as maybe, mister, but it will not stop us all doing our duty,' the captain looked meaningfully round the assembled officers. Their averted gazes and embarrassed complexions further angered him.
He rose and the officers scrambled to their feet. 'You, Mr Devaux, may take such measures as you see fit in the way of precaution. Good night, gentlemen!'
A screech of chairs and buzz of retreat accompanied the departure of the officers. Devaux's words rang in his ears:
'Time will tell, sir, which of us is right…'
The trouble was Hope already knew…
Drinkwater left the dinner with the uncomfortable feeling that he had witnessed something he should not have done. He had hitherto considered Hope's position as unassailable and was shocked by Devaux's outspoken attack. In addition he was surprised at the giggling of some of the dinner guests, particularly Devaux and Wheeler, who seemed in some curious way pleased with what they had achieved. But perhaps it was the face of Blackmore that he remembered most. The old man's white hair was drawn severely back and his face passed the midshipman like a kind of fixed figurehead. The expression it bore as it passed Wheeler and Devaux was one of utter contempt.
Drinkwater followed Cranston below. In the shadows of the orlop an arm reached out and grabbed his elbow. His exclamation was silenced by a face with a commanding finger held to its barely visible lips. It was Sharples.
'What do you want?' whispered Drinkwater, unable to shake off the foreboding engendered by the recent conversation. Somehow the appearance of Sharples, whom he had ignored for months now, came as no surprise.
'Beg pardon, sir. You ought to know I believe Threddle and Mr Morris are hatching something up, sir. Thought you ought to know, sir…' Drinkwater felt his arm released and Sharples melted away in the shadows…
Drinkwater entered the cockpit.
'So you are back from your dinner at the captain's table, eh?'
Morris's voice was loaded with venom. At first Drinkwater did not reply. Then, aware that Cranston was still in the mess he decided to bait his enemy.
'Tell me Morris, why do you hate me?'
'Because, lickspittle, you are less than a dog's turd, yet you have been a source of trouble for me ever since you came aboard this ship. You are an insufferable little bastard…'
Drinkwater's fists clenched and he shot a look at Cranston. The older man was disinterestedly climbing into his hammock. 'I'll call on you for satisfaction when we get to New York for that remark…'
'Ah! But not now, eh? Not so bloody bold without a cudgel are you? Bit more careful of our pretty face since we got that little whore in Falmouth aren't we, or is it because you're keeping company with the officers now, Wheeler's quite a dandy-boy now isn't he…' Drinkwater paled at the allusion to Elizabeth but he held his rage. He saw Cranston, sitting up in his hammock, making negative motions with his hands. Morris was working himself up into a violent rage, a torrent of invective streaming from him in which he worked through every obscenity known to his fertile and warped imagination. Drinkwater grabbed his boat cloak and went on deck…
'Why don't you shut your filthy mo
uth, Morris?' asked Cranston from the shadows.
But Morris did not hear Cranston. Hatred, blind and unreasoning hatred, burned in his heart with the intensity of fever. There could be no justification for such bitter emotion any more than there was explanation for love. Morris only knew that from thwarted purpose Drinkwater had come to represent all that had dogged Morris's career: ability, charm, affability and a way of inspiring loyalty in others, qualities in which he was lacking.
Morris was a victim of himself: of his own jealousy, of his sexuality and its concomitants. Perhaps it was the onset of disease that upset his mental balance or perhaps the bitter fruits of a warped and twisted passion; a frustrated love that suffered already the convolutions of self-torture by its very perversity.
Chapter Fifteen
…Oft Times go Astray…
March — April 1781
If the ship's company of HMS Cyclops expected a dramatic coastline for their landfall they were disappointed. The Carolinian shore was low and wooded. Blackmore, the navigator, had the greatest difficulty in locating the least conspicuous feature with any confidence. In the end the estuary of the Galuda River was found by the longboat scouting inshore.
It was afternoon before the onshore breeze enabled Hope to take the frigate into the shoaling waters with confidence.
Leadsmen hove their lines from the forechains on either bow and the longboat, a loaded four-pounder in her bow, proceeded ahead under Lieutenant Skelton, sounding the channel. Behind her under topsails, spanker and staysails the frigate stood cautiously inshore.
The Galuda River ran into the Atlantic between two small headlands which terminated in sandspits. These twin extensions of the land swung north at their extremity where the river flow was diverted north by the Gulf Stream. Here a bar existed over which the frigate had to be carefully worked.
Once into the estuary the river banks were densely wooded, seamed by creeks and swamps as the Galuda wound inland. Just within the river mouth itself the land was a little higher, reaching an elevation some thirty feet above high water. Here the trees had been removed and Fort Frederic erected.
It was towards the fort that attention aboard Cyclops was directed once the dangers of the bar had been negotiated. The serrated stockade rampart was just visible over the surrounding trees. No Union Flag was visible from its conspicuously naked flagpole.
'Shall I fire a gun, sir?' enquired Devaux.
'No,' replied Hope. The tension in the situation blotted out the memory of their former disagreement. Cyclops crept slowly onwards, the leadsmen's chants droning on. The frigate was abeam of the headlands into the main river; slowly the fort drew abeam. There was not a soul in sight and the very air was pregnant with the desolation of withdrawal.
'Abandoned, by God!'
'We will bring the ship to her bower, Mr Devaux,' said the captain, ignoring Devaux's outburst, 'kindly see to it.'
The longboat was brought alongside and a party of seamen and marines detailed into it. Drinkwater watched the boat pull away from the ship.
A small wooden jetty, obviously for use by the garrison, facilitated disembarkation. His hanger drawn Wheeler advanced his men in open order. Drinkwater watched as they ran forward in a crouching lope. The seamen followed in a ragged phalanx. At the boat the four-pounder covered the assault.
The occupation of Fort Frederic was carried out without a shot. The fort was empty of men, ammunition or provisions of any kind. There was not the slightest clue as to where or when the garrison had gone. But it had a weird, sinister atmosphere about it as some deserted places do. It made the stoutest hearts shiver.
Devaux, who had commanded the landing party turned to Wheeler. 'If he's going to stop here we'd better occupy the place.' Wheeler agreed. 'We can put swivels here and… er, over there. My marines can manage. Will you row a guard-boat all the time?' Devaux smiled at the scarlet-coated figure, gorget glinting in the sunshine. Wheeler was nervous. Devaux looked around him. 'This is a bloody business, Wheeler, and I like none of it, I'll report to Hope. Yes of course we'll row a guard. I wouldn't leave a dog in a place like this…' Wheeler shivered despite the sun's heat. He was not given to premonitions but he was put in mind of another American river. Wheeler had lost his father on the Monongahela…
He shook off the oppressive feeling. He began shouting orders to Hagan and the seamen to put Fort Frederic into a state of defence…
Cyclops was a ferment of activity. As 'a precautionary measure' Devaux had her topgallant masts struck down so that they might not appear above the surrounding trees. Three boat guns and a few swivel guns were mounted in Fort Frederic of which Wheeler, losing his earlier misgivings, was appointed commandant. He embraced the post with enthusiasm and it was not long before properly-appointed sentinels were mounted and patrols were sent out into the surrounding woods. Wheeler's only regret was that Hope forbade him to hoist British colours over the fort.
'It is conceivable that we may have to abandon the post in haste, I have no wish to appear to surrender a British fort,' Hope explained, and with that Wheeler had to be content.
As a precaution against attack from seaward the longboat was sent to cruise on the bar commanded by a midshipman or a master's mate. The other boats were variously employed ferrying men and stores ashore.
After twenty-four hours no contact had been made with friend or foe and Hope decided to despatch an expedition inland to reconnoitre. A spring had been secured to the frigate's cable so that her broadsides might bear on either bank, up, or down stream. But it was from seawards that the captain expected trouble and a lookout was kept at the main-topmast cap. From here the longboat was assiduously watched.
That second evening Cyclops had been placed in a defensive position and the final preparations were made by rigging boarding nettings. These extended from the ship's rails to lines set up between the lower yardarms. As the sun set and the red ensign fluttered down from Cyclops's stern the sick, brought on deck for some air, were taken below as the bites of the mosquitoes rendered their position on deck untenable. But the insects that infested the forested banks of the Galuda River boarded unperturbed. The restless moans of the sick and hale as they endured the torment of the biting parasites floated away from the frigate over the twilit water, punctuating the sinister stillness of the surrounding foliage.
Thus did Cyclops pass two nights waiting for some news of British or Loyalist forces.
The following morning Wheeler was relieved of his command to take over the entire marine detachment in support of Lieutenant Devaux and a party of seamen who were to undertake a probe inland. It was a desperate attempt by Hope to fulfil his orders; if the prophet would not go to the mountain then some attempt must be made to bring the mountain to Mahomet…
Thus reasoned the captain as he wiped his perspiring forehead. He poured himself a glass of rum grog and walked aft. The slick waters of the Galuda bubbled under Cyclops's stern, chuckling round the rudder which moved slightly with a faint creak and soft grind of tiller chains.
In the corner of his vision he could just see the landing party forming up after disembarking. He saw Wheeler throw out an advanced picket under Hagan and lead off with the rest of the marines. In a less precise column he saw Midshipman Morris follow with a squad of seamen. Midshipman Drinkwater brought up the rear followed by a file of marines under their corporal. The head of the column had already disappeared in the trees when he saw Devaux, after addressing a few final words to Keene left as fort-commander, look back at the ship then take to his heels in chase of his independent command…
Hope tossed off the rum and looked seawards. The longboat was down there under Cranston. Skelton was the only other commissioned officer left on board. With a surprising pang of affection he thought anxiously of Devaux and the gaudy but competent Wheeler… he thought idly of young Drinkwater… so very like himself all those years ago… he sighed again and watched the Galuda run seawards… out to the open sea… 'From whence cometh our help' he muttered in si
lent cynicism to himself…
Drinkwater had little taste for the inland expedition. Once they had lost sight of the frigate it seemed to him that the whole party was instantly endangered. The sea was their element and as if to confirm his worries seamen ahead of him, men as nimble as monkeys in the rigging, were tripping and stumbling over tree roots and cursing at the squelching morasses that they began immediately to encounter. He was also over-shadowed by the earnest entreaties of Achilles who had refused to come with Drinkwater but who impressed upon the midshipman the folly of going inland. Drinkwater therefore plunged into the forest with his nerves already highly strung, with every fibre of his being suspicious of the least faltering of the head of the column, of the least exclamation no matter how innocent the cause…
Despite the nature of the terrain the landing party made good progress along the track that led inland from Fort Frederic. About five miles from the fort they came across a cleared area with a saw pit and indications of some sort of logging post. There was also evidence that its occupants had made a hurried departure. A few miles further on they came across a small plantation with a clapboard house and outbuildings. The house had been partially burned and the outbuildings were a mass of flies. Carrion eaters were feeding on the decomposing corpses of cattle.
The stink of that burnt out farm seemed to linger with the little column as it made its way through the oppressively empty pine barrens. They crossed a creek that drained north into the Galuda and set up a bivouac for the night. The men were now grumbling in a murmur that soon became an uproar as the mosquitoes began biting. Devaux had no zeal for this kind of service but Wheeler, able to assume the unofficial leadership through his military training, was revelling in his own element. Watches were posted and the party settled down to eat what they had brought with them.
About sunset, having ascertained his watch duties for the night, Drinkwater went off into the surrounding forest to answer a call of nature. After the sweaty progress of the day, the incessant grumbling of the men and the struggle to keep them going towards the end, he was feeling very tired. Squatting over a tree root he became light-headed, convinced that this was not really him, Nathaniel Drinkwater, who squatted thus, emptying his bowels God knows how many thousand miles from home. He looked down. Was this soggy, mossy undergrowth really the fabulous Americas? It seemed so illogical as to be impossible. As so often happened at such private moments he found his thoughts drifting to Elizabeth. Somehow the image of her was more real than this ludicrous actuality…
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