An Eye of the Fleet nd-1

by Richard Woodman

  So strongly was he able to fantasise that he seemed to see himself telling Elizabeth of how, once, many years ago, he had sat across the roots of a pine tree in somewhat indelicate circumstances in far away Carolina thinking of her. So disembodied were his instincts that he failed to hear the crack of a dead branch behind him.

  Even when Morris pitched him forward on his face he did not react immediately. Only when it dawned on him that he had his face pressed in a mossy hummock and his naked backside revealed to the world did he come to.

  'Well, well, what a pretty sight… and how very appropriate, eh, Threddle?'

  At the sound of that voice and the mention of the name he tried to turn, putting an arm out to push himself up. But he was too late. Even as he took his weight a foot came down on his elbow and his arm collapsed. Almost instinctively he drew his knees up, twisting his head round.

  Threddle stood on his arm, a cutlass in his hand. There was a cruel glitter in his eyes and the corners of his mouth smirked.

  'What shall we do with him, eh, Threddle?' Morris remained behind him, out of sight but Drinkwater felt horribly exposed, like a mare being steadied for the stallion. As if reading his own fear Morris kicked him. The wave of nausea that spread upwards from his genitals was overwhelming, he fought for breath as the vomit emptied from him. Suddenly he felt Threddle's hand in his hair, twisting his face round so that he faced his own excrement…

  'What a very good idea, Threddle… and then we will bugger him, eh? That'll cut him down to his proper size…' Drinkwater had no power to resist, all he could do was clamp his mouth and eyes shut. But even as the smell of his own ordure grew stronger in his nostrils the pressure of Threddle's hand ceased and pulled sideways. The big man fell with a squelchy thud.

  'What the…?' Morris half turned to see in the gathering twilight the figure of a man holding a boarding pike. Its end gleamed wetly as it was pointed at Morris.

  'Sharples!'

  Sharples said nothing to Morris. 'Are you all right Mr Drinkwater?' The midshipman rose unsteadily to his feet. He leaned against the tree and, with trembling fingers, buttoned his ducks. Still not trusting his voice he nodded dumbly.

  Morris made a move but ceased as Sharples jabbed the point at his chest.

  'Now Mister Morris take the pistol out of your belt and no tricks…' Drinkwater lifted his head to watch. It was getting quite dark but there was still light enough to see the furious gleam in Sharples's eyes.

  'No tricks now, Mister Morris I want you to place that pistol at Threddle's head and blow his brains out…' the voice was vehemently insistent. Drinkwater looked down at Threddle. The pike had pierced his abdomen, entering below the rib cage and ripping through the digestive organs. He was not dead but lay with blood flowing across his belly and gobbets of gore trickling from his mouth. Occasionally his legs twitched weakly and the only thing about him that seemed not to be already half dead were the eyes that screamed a silent protest and cry for mercy…

  'Cock it!' ordered Sharples. 'Cock it!' He jabbed the pike into Morris's buttocks, forcing the midshipman round to face Threddle. The click of the hammer coming back sounded in Drinkwater's ears. He roused himself. 'No,' he whispered, 'for God's sake Sharples, no!' His voice gathered strength but before he could say more Sharples shouted 'Fire!'

  For perhaps a split second Morris hesitated, then the boarding pike made his muscles involuntarily contract. The pistol cracked and Threddle's face disintegrated.

  No one moved for perhaps thirty seconds.

  'Oh, my God!' managed Drinkwater at last. 'What the hell have you done, Sharples?'

  The man turned. A soft, childish smile played around his mouth. His eyes were deep pools in the near-night, pools of tears. His voice when it came caught on breathless sobs.

  'It came in the mail, Mr Drinkwater, the mail we got from Gal'tea… the letter that tol' me my Kate was dead… they said she died in chil'birth but I know better'n that, sir… I know better'n that…'

  Drinkwater mastered himself at last. 'I'm sorry, Sharples really sorry… and thank you for your help… But why did you kill Threddle?'

  'Because he's shit, sir,' he said simply.

  Morris looked up. His face was deathly white. He began to walk unsteadily back towards the encampment. With a final look at Threddle Sharples followed, then, sensing Drinkwater lagged behind, he turned back.

  'It ain't no good crying over spilt milk, Mr Drinkwater…'

  'Shouldn't we bury him?'

  Sharples snorted contemptuously. 'No.'

  'But what am I to tell the first lieutenant…?' Sharples was already tugging him away from the darkening clearing. There was the sound of branches breaking underfoot. Ahead of them they saw Wheeler and two marines, their white cross-belts glowing in the gathering night, close round Morris.

  Sharples let go of the boarding pike.

  They came up with the others. 'What's going on?' demanded Wheeler looking pointedly at Morris's hand which still held the pistol. Morris's face remained an impassive mask, he looked through, rather than at, Wheeler.

  Drinkwater came up. 'Just a stupid mistake, Mr Wheeler. I was emptying my bladder when Morris thought I was a rebel… Sharples was doing the same thing about ten yards away…' he managed a smile. 'That's right isn't it Morris?'

  Morris looked up and Drinkwater felt ice-cold fingers of apprehension round his heart. For Morris smiled. A ghastly, complicit smile…

  'If you say so, Drinkwater…'

  And it was only then that Drinkwater realised that by explaining their actions with lies he had become a party to the crime…

  At dawn the next morning the camp was astir early with discontent. Unable to comprehend the seemingly pointless purpose of the march, employed outside their own environment and stung into a half-crazy state, the men were now openly mutinous. Devaux did his best to placate them but lacked conviction for he shared their belief, with more justification, that their mission was an ill-conceived waste of time.

  'Well Wheeler,' he said, 'we may be marching along a fine "military road" but I see few of the fine military upon it, barring your good self, of course. For my money we may as well retrace our steps before being utterly consumed by these damned bugs.' Here he slapped his face, missing the offending insect and presenting a ludicrous spectacle to those near him.

  Wheeler considered the matter and a compromise was reached. They would march until noon then, if they still found nothing, they would turn back.

  An hour later they set off…

  Out on the bar of the Galuda River Midshipman Cranston served biscuit and water to the longboat's crew. Despite their cramped and aching bodies after a night in the boat the seamen were cheerful. Cruising offshore there was either a land or sea breeze and the insect life was negligible. They looked forward to a pleasant day, a yachting excursion comparable with that enjoyed by the wealthy members of the Duke of Cumberland's fleet. It all seemed to have little to do with the rigorous duties of a man o'war. Fitted with a lug-sail the longboat cruised with little exertion necessary from her crew. Lulled into such complaisance it was a rude shock to discern the topgallants of a large vessel offshore.

  Cranston put the longboat off before the wind and headed for the Galuda estuary. He was certain the stranger was La Creole…

  The sun had almost reached its zenith when they came upon the mill. It was another weatherboard edifice and indicated the presence of human habitation since the farther trail was better cleared and recently trod. Nevertheless it was deserted despite a partially-filled sack of flour and a dumped cartload of Indian corn.

  'That's been left in a deuced hurry,' said Wheeler pointing to the pile.

  'Very perceptive,' said Devaux annoyed that, just as it seemed he would have his way and return, they were going to find people.

  'D'ye think they fled at our approach?'

  'I don't know…' said Devaux flatly.

  'Shall we feed the men before proceeding further, for I don't like this.' Wheeler's conf
idence was shaken for the first time. Devaux noted this and pulled himself together. He was in command of the party. First they'd eat and then decide what was to be done.

  'D'ye attend to it, Wheeler, and a couple of men at the top of the mill will set our minds at ease, eh?'

  'Aye, aye,' answered the marine officer, biting his lip with chagrin that he had overlooked such a very elementary precaution.

  The men settled to another meal of dried biscuit and water. They lay in languid poses scratching themselves and grumbling irritably. Having posted his sentinels Wheeler flung himself down in the shade.

  All morning Drinkwater had toiled on in the heat trying desperately to forget the events of the night before. But his testicles ached and from time to time the gorge rose in his throat. He choked it manfully down and avoided all contact with Morris. Sharples swung along with the seamen, a benign smile on his face. Drinkwater was filled with the overwhelming sense of relief when they lay down in the shade of the mill. He closed his eyes and drifted into semi-consciousness.

  Then the rebel horse were on them.

  The raiders swept into the clearing in a sudden thunder of hooves and dust and the sparkle of sabres. Most of the British were caught lying prone. Surprised in the open the seamen were terrified at the appearance of horses. The flying hooves and flaring nostrils were unfamiliar and horrifying to these men who gave their lives without protest in the claustrophobic darkness of a gun-deck. They defended themselves as best they might, stark terror adding to their confusion.

  Wheeler and Devaux came to their feet blaspheming.

  'To me, sergeant! Oh, Christ Jesus! To me sergeant, damn you!' The marines began to fight their way through to the base of the mill, coalescing in little groups to commence a methodical discharge of musketry.

  The general melee lasted ten long minutes in which a third of the seamen had been cut down and there was scarce a man in the entire force who had not received a cut or graze.

  Drinkwater leaped up with the rest. He had brought a cutlass with him and lugged it out, its clumsy unbalanced blade awkward to his hand. A man on a bay plunged towards him. Drinkwater parried the blow but the impetus of the horse threw him over and he rolled to one side to avoid the hooves. A pistol ball raised dust by his head as he struggled to his feet again. Weakness overcame him and he was filled with the overwhelming desire simply to lie down. He rolled on to his back, half submitting to the impulse. A man ran past him with a musket. He dropped to one knee and fired at the horseman, now turning to make another pass. It was Sharples. He discharged the musket and half dragged Drinkwater closer to the mill. The horseman swerved and rode off to attack four seamen fighting back to back and already going down before the slashing sabres.

  Drinkwater got to his feet. He saw Devaux and Wheeler with a group of men forming a defensive group. He pointed and Sharples nodded. Suddenly another man had joined them. It was Morris. He pushed Drinkwater who staggered back against the mill. Sharples turned and thrust the barrel of his musket between them. Morris fired his pistol and Sharples doubled over, a great hole in his chest. Drinkwater was dazed, his vision blurred. He comprehended nothing.

  Another horseman rode up and slashed at them. Morris turned away, running round the corner of the mill. The horseman followed. Drinkwater took one brief look at Sharples. He was dead.

  He looked up again, the little group round the two lieutenants had grown. In a blind panic he put down his head and ran, dodging among the whirling sabres and stamping horses' legs with animal instinct.

  The rebel cavalry had played out their advantage of surprise. Used as they were to attacking lonely farms or ambushing parties of raw Tory militia the horsemen were used to speedy and uncontested victory. Having fought the intruders for some minutes the surviving seamen steadied. Devaux was among them his teeth bared in a snarl of rage. They began to rally, their cutlasses slashing back at the horses or the riders' thighs, concentrating on the bright red spot which, through the swirling dust, marked where the marines were forming a disciplined centre of resistance.

  The American officer felt his squadron's will to fight was on the ebb. Seeking to rally his force he yelled out: 'Tarleton's quarter, my lads! Give the bastards Tarleton's quarter!' This reference to the leader of the British Legion, a force of Loyalist Americans under British officers, who let not a rebel escape them if they could help it, had its effect and they renewed their attack. But the resistance of the British was now established and the Americans gradually drew off, reining in their steaming horses just out of short musket range.

  Slowly the dust subsided and the two contending parties glared at each other across a no-man's-land of broken bodies and hamstrung horses. Then the enemy wheeled their mounts and vanished into the trees as swiftly and silently as they had come.

  The news of the arrival of La Creole off the Galuda came as no surprise to Hope. On receiving Cranston's intelligence the captain ordered Skelton to the mainmast cap to watch the enemy privateer. It was with some relief that the lieutenant reported that La Creole had stood offshore towards the late afternoon thus buying valuable time for the British. Why she had done so Hope could only guess, possibly the enemy commander wanted time to make preparations, perhaps he did not think he had been observed and wished to make his attack the following day. Perhaps, and Hope hardly dare believe this, perhaps Cyclops had not been spotted and La Creole was working her patient way southward still searching. At all events the captain was too old a campaigner to worry when fate had dealt him a card he did not expect.

  The appearance of La Creole enabled him to make up his mind in one direction. He would recall Devaux and the landing party immediately. The indecision that had manifested itself earlier and annoyed Devaux was gone now for it had been caused, not by senility, but lack of faith in his orders. Hope ordered the garrison of Fort Frederic to be withdrawn and the frigate's defences strengthened against a night boat attack.

  At a conference of officers he called for a volunteer to take the message of recall to Devaux. The pitifully small group of officers regarded the silent forest visible through the stern windows with misgiving.

  'I'll go,' said Cranston at last.

  'Well done, Mr Cranston. I shall endeavour to do everything possible for you for such a service. Will no one else support Mr Cranston…?'

  'There's no need, sir. I'll take the blackamoor.'

  'Very well, you may draw what you require from the purser and small arms from Lieutenant Keene. Good luck to you.'

  The officers shuffled with relief at Cranston filling such a dangerous office. When they had gone Hope poured himself a glass of rum and wiped his forehead for the thousandth time that day.

  'I'll be bloody glad when Devaux and Wheeler get back… I pray heaven they're all right…' he muttered to himself…

  The landing party reached their bivouac of the previous night dragging with them the remnants of their expedition. The men collapsed on the banks of the creek to bathe their wounds or drink the bloody water. The badly injured groaned horribly as the mosquitoes renewed their assaults and several became delirious during the night.

  Drinkwater slept badly. Although unwounded beyond a bruised shoulder from the flat of a sabre and the endemic scratches collected on the way, the heat, fatigue and events of the preceding hours had taken their toll. He had marched from the mill in a daze, his mind constantly fastening unbidden on images of Threddle lying dead in the gloaming and Sharples stiff with blackened blood in the heat of noon. Between these two corpses floated Morris, Morris with a pistol still smoking in his hand, Morris with the smile of triumph on his face and, worst of all, the superimposition of Morris over his image of Elizabeth.

  He fought hard to retain her face in his mind's eye but it faded, faded beyond recall so that he thought he might go mad in this forested nightmare through which they trudged.

  And when night came there was no rest, for the mosquitoes reactivated the exhausted nervous system, constantly recalling to wakefulness the mind and th
e body that only wished to sleep. Death, thought Nathaniel at that midnight moment, would be a blessed relief.

  Wheeler, too, slept little. He constantly patrolled his outposts, apprehensive lest the enemy renew their attack on the sleeping men. He shook his head sadly as a grey dawn revealed the encampment. The men were tattered, their limbs scarred and gashed by briars and branches, dried blood blackening improvised bandages and flies settling on open wounds.

  Several of the wounded were delirious and Devaux ordered litters improvised and an hour after dawn the party moved off, resuming its painful march.

  At mid-morning they found Cranston and Achilles.

  The negro had been tied to a tree and flayed alive. His back was a mass of flies. Hagan, himself badly wounded limped forward and cut the body down. Achilles was still alive, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

  Cranston had evidently put up a fight. He had been hanged from a tree but it was obvious he had been dead before the rebels strung him up. Or at least Devaux hoped so. Scarce a man there refrained from vomiting at the sight of the mutilation inflicted on Cranston's body. Devaux found himself wondering if the man had a wife or a mistress… and then he turned away.

  Wheeler and Hagan laid the negro gently on the ground, brushing the flies from his face. Devaux stood beside him and touched his shoulder. Wheeler stood up. 'Bastards,' he choked.