Drinkwater felt himself seized again by the cold rage that had made him so brutal with the wounded French lieutenant of La Creole. It was a permanent legacy of that horrendous march inland and was to stamp his conduct in moments of physical confrontation. As the influence of his widowed mother had made him soft clay for Morris's viciousness, the events of the Galuda had tempered the latent iron in his soul.
'Have a care, sir,' he said, his voice low and menacing, 'have a care in what you say… you forget I have passed for master's mate which is more than you have ever managed… you also forget I have evidence to have you hanged under two Articles of War…'
Morris paled and Drinkwater thought for a moment he was going to faint. At last he spoke.
'And what if I tell of your conduct over Threddle?'
Drinkwater felt his own heart thump with recollection but he retained his head. He turned to little White who was staring wide-eyed between one and the other of the older midshipmen.
'Chalky, if you had to choose between evidence I gave and evidence Morris gave whose would you favour?'
The boy smiled, pleased at the dividend his revenge was receiving, 'Yours, Nat, of course…'
'Thank you. Now perhaps you and Morris would be kind enough to carry my chest to my cabin.'
Drinkwater luxuriated in the privacy of his little cabin. Situated between two twelve-pounders on the gun-deck it dismantled when the frigate cleared for action. He no longer had to endure the constant comings and goings of the cockpit and was able to read in privacy and quiet. Perhaps the greatest benefit his acting rank conferred upon him was the right to mess in the gunroom and enjoy the society of Wheeler and Devaux. Appleby, though not at that time technically a member of the commissioned officers' mess was a frequent, indeed a usual, visitor. In New York Drinkwater obtained new clothes and cocked hat without braid so that his appearance befitted his new dignity without ostentation, though he was rarely on deck without his captured sword swinging, as Devaux put it, 'upon his larboard hip'.
His acquaintance with the multifarious duties of a naval officer increased daily as there was a constant stream of boats between the ships and town of New York but his social life was limited to an occasional dinner in the gunroom of another vessel: Unlike Wheeler or Devaux he eschewed the delights of the frequent entertainments given by New York society for the garrison and naval officers. This was partly out of shyness, partly out of deference to Elizabeth, but mostly due to the fact that the other occupants of the gunroom now had a junior in their midst sufficiently subordinate not to protest at their abuses of rank.
Drinkwater's chief delight at this time was reading. In the bookshops of New York and from the surgeon's small travelling library he had discovered Smollett and made the consequential acquaintance of Humphry Clinker, Commodore Trunnion and Roderick Random.
It was the latter that led his thoughts so often to Elizabeth. The romantic concept of the waiting woman obsessed him so that the uncertainty of Elizabeth's exact whereabouts worried him. That he loved her was now beyond a doubt. Her image had sustained him in the dreary swamps of Carolina and he had come to think of her as a talisman against all evil, mostly that of Morris.
There was more to his enmity with Morris than a poisonous dislike. He was convinced that the man was an evil influence over his life. Buried deep in the natural fear of the green young midshipman of two years earlier this idea had grown as successive events had seemed to establish a pattern in his imagination. That they had served to strengthen him and his resolution seemed inconsequential. Had he not been made aware of Morris's depravity and the fate of Sharples? Could not someone else have come in from the yard arm that night the topman had begged for help? Could not another midshipman have been sent forward to ask Kate Sharples to leave the deck that day in Spithead?
But now there was a more vivid reason for attributing something supernatural to Morris's malevolence. For Drinkwater was subject to a recurring dream, a nightmare that had its origins in the swamps of Carolina and haunted him with an occasional but persistent terror.
It had come first to him in the exhausted sleep after the taking of La Creole and occurred again in the gales off Cape Hatteras. Twice while Cyclops lay in New York he had suffered from it.
There was always a white lady who seemed to rear over him, pale as death and inexorable in her advance as she came ever nearer, yet never passed over him entirely. Sometimes she bore the face of Cranston, sometimes of Morris but, most horribly of Elizabeth, but an Elizabeth of Medusa-like visage before which he quailed, drowning in a vast noise like the clanking of chains, rhythmically jerking… or of Cyclops's pumps…
It was therefore with relief that Drinkwater learned of Morris's transfer. Since his promotion he had not sought to impose his newfound authority upon Morris and simply heard that he was joining a ship in Rear Admiral Drake's division with an inner and secret lightening of the heart.
Perhaps, after all, his fears were the groundless suppositions of an overtaxed nervous system…
But on the morning of Morris's departure Drinkwater was again in doubt.
He was reading in the confined privacy of his tiny cabin when the door was flung unceremoniously open. Morris stood on the threshold. He was drunk and held in his hand a piece of crumpled paper.
'I've come to shay good-bye, Mishter Fucking Drinkwater…' he slurred, his hooded lids half closed, '…I want to tell you that you and I have unfinished businesh to attend to…' he managed a mirthless chuckle, spittle bubbling round his mouth.
'Ish funny really… you and I could've become friends…' Tears were visible in the corners of his eyes and Drinkwater slowly realised the awful, odious implication in the man's words. Morris sniffed, drawing his cuff across his nose. Then he began chuckling again.
'I've a letter from my shishter here… she knows a man or two at the Admiralty. She promishes me to use her four-poshter to make me a posht Captain… now don't you think thatsh bloody funny Mishter Drinkwater? Don't you think thatsh about the funniesht thing you've ever heard…?' he paused to chuckle at the ribald pun, then his smile vanished and with it his drunken laxity. The threat he had come to utter reinforced by rum was from his heart:
'And if as a consequence I can ever destroy you or your Miss Bower I will… by God I will…'
At the mention of Elizabeth's name Nathaniel felt the terrible icy rage that had despatched the French privateer officer flood his veins. Morris fell back abruptly and stumbling, sprawled on the deck. Drinkwater had the captured sword half out of its scabbard when the abject spectacle of his adversary quailing before him brought him to his senses. He slammed the fragile door of his cabin and snapped the sword down in its sheath. Outside he heard Morris's feet scrape on the deck as he staggered upright.
Drinkwater stood stock still in the centre of the room, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He began shaking like an aspen leaf in a breeze and found himself looking at the little picture of the Algonquin that Elizabeth had given him and that his new-found privacy had allowed him to hang.
He reached out a shaking hand to reassure himself of its reality…
On August 16th, 1781, the ships at Sandy Hook sighted sails to the southward. Sir Samuel Hood arrived in a lather, furious to find Admiral Graves still in New York. The Rear Admiral had himself rowed up the harbour to harangue Graves when he found the latter ashore in his comfortable house. Though junior to Graves, Hood impressed his superior of the size of the French fleet in North American waters. In view of Graves's apparent pusillanimity he suppressed details of the unseaworthiness of his own squadron, one ship of which was actually in a sinking condition.
Graves was suddenly infected with the panic of rapid action and ordered his fleet to sea.
But it was still the end of the month before the twenty-one line of battleships were proceeding south. De Barras at Rhode Island with eight of the line had already sailed and the previous day Admiral De Grasse had anchored his own twenty-eight of the line, numerous frigates and
transports in the Chesapeake. He had also landed 3,000 troops to surround an obscure peninsula called Yorktown.
Lord Cornwallis was cut off, for Washington and Rochambeau were marching south from the Hudson Highlands, across New Jersey their flank exposed to the inactive Clinton at New York, to join up with La Fayette and close the iron ring round the hapless Earl.
What happened to Cornwallis is history. The British fleets sailed south too late. Graves flung out his frigates and Cyclops stood to the eastward, thus taking no part in the forthcoming battle.
The fleet fought an action with De Grasse which was indecisive in itself. But it was enough for Graves. De Grasse retained possession of the Bay of the Chesapeake. At the time De Barras had not arrived but when Graves, realising the enormity of his blunder tried a second time to draw out De Grasse, the British Admiral found De Barras had reinforced the Comte and drew off.
Cornwallis was abandoned.
A gallant effort was made to cross the James River under cover of darkness to where Tarleton held a bridgehead at Gloucester, but after the first boats had got over a violent storm got up and the breakout to New York was abandoned. A few weeks later Lord Cornwallis surrendered and the war with America was effectively, if not officially, over.
Cyclops, scouting eastward, missed both the action off the Virginia Capes and a sight of De Barras's squadron. She eventually returned to New York to receive belated recognition from the new Commander in Chief that she belonged to the Channel Fleet. After despatching the fast tender Rattlesnake with the news of the loss of Cornwallis's Army at the end of October, Admiral Graves recollected that although fast she was lightly armed and a vulnerable prey to a French cruiser or a marauding Yankee privateer. In typical fashion he vacillated, fretting about the fate of Rattlesnake, worrying that his report might fall into enemy hands. Eventually he decided to send a frigate with a duplicate set of despatches.
It seemed a good idea, his secretary advised, to take the opportunity of sending Cyclops back to Kempenfelt.
Acting Lieutenant Nathaniel Drinkwater stopped pacing to stare up at the main topgallant. His body balanced effortlessly as the ship moved beneath him, a near south-westerly gale thrumming in the rigging and sending a patter of spray over the starboard quarter rail.
He studied the sail for a moment. There was no mistaking the strain on the weather sheet or the vibration transmitted to the yard below. It was time to shorten sail.
'Mr White!' The boy was immediately attentive: 'My compliments to the captain and the wind's freshening. With his approval I intend furling the t'gallants.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater stared into the binnacle. The two helmsmen grunted and sweated as they fought to hold Cyclops on course. He watched the gently oscillating compass card. Advancing daylight already rendered the oil lamp superfluous. The heavy grey Atlantic lifted the frigate's quarter, sent her scudding forward until it passed under her and she dragged into the trough, stabbing her bowsprit at the sky. Then her stern lifted again and the cycle repeated itself, over and over, all the three thousand miles from New York to the chops of the Channel…
Drinkwater felt none of the shame being experienced by Captain Hope shaving in the cabin below. For Hope already knew the heady wine of victory, having fought through the glorious period of the Seven Years War. To end his career in defeat was a bitter blow, a condemnation of the years of labour and a justification of his cynicism that was only alleviated by the draft on Tavistock's for four thousand sterling.
To Drinkwater the events of the last few weeks had been a culmination. In their fruitless search for De Barras they had boxed the compass off Long Island and the New England coast. To Nathaniel, free of the oppressive presence of Morris, it had been a glorious time, a fruitful splendid time in which, cautiously at first, but with growing confidence, he had handled the ship.
He looked up at the now furled topgallants. His judgement was vindicated for Cyclops had not slackened her pace.
He saw Captain Hope ascend the companionway. He vacated the windward side, touching his hat as the captain passed.
'Morning, sir.'
'G'morning, Mr Drinkwater.' Hope glanced aloft. 'Anything in sight?'
'Nothing reported, sir.'
'Very well.' Hope looked at the log slate.
'Should raise the Lizard before dark, sir, by my reckoning,' volunteered Drinkwater. Hope grunted and began pacing the weather quarterdeck. Drinkwater moved over to the lee side where young Chalky White was shivering in the down-draught of the main topsail.
'Mr Drinkwater!' The captain called sharply.
'Sir?' Drinkwater hurried over to where the captain was regarding him with a frown. His heart sank.
'Sir?' he repeated.
'You are not wearing your sword.'
'Sir?' repeated Drinkwater yet again, his forehead wrinkling in a frown.
'It is the first morning you have had your present appointment that you have not worn it.'
'Is it, sir?' Drinkwater blushed. Behind him White giggled.
'You must be paying the correct attention to your duties and less to your personal appearance. I am pleased to see it.'
Drinkwater swallowed.
'Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
Hope resumed his pacing. White was in stitches, the subject of Mr Drinkwater's sword having caused much amusement between decks. Drinkwater turned on him.
'Mr White! Take a glass to the foremasthead and look for England!'
'England, Nat… Mr Drinkwater, sir?'
'Yes, Mr White! England!'
England, he thought, England and Elizabeth…
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An Eye of the Fleet nd-1 Page 21
