After the scrap Blackmore had taken Drinkwater aside and quizzed him further about Morris. Drinkwater had not wanted to press charges and Blackmore saw to it that Morris knew this. The old man was confident that Morris would give no more trouble on the present cruise.
The sighting of the Yankee schooner was the first opportunity Cyclops had had of intercepting all but merchant ships and the crew were in high spirits as she bore down on her quarry.
The chase had seen Cyclops but failed to recognise the danger until too late. Approaching end-on the Americans had taken the frigate for a merchantman and a potential prize. The appearance of Cyclops's gun muzzles however, urged the rebels to flee. The schooner's helm was put up and she made off before the wind.
She was a small, low vessel, a fast soft-wood craft built in the shipyards of Rhode Island. But Cyclops, now carrying her studding sails in the freshening breeze, was tearing down on her. The American held his canvas but his smaller vessel laboured with its huge gaff sails threatening to bury her bow and broach her. The British frigate came on with a great white bone in her teeth. On her fo'c's'le Devaux waited for her bow to rise. The bow chaser barked.
'Short by God!' The gun's crew loaded again. Smoke belched a second time from the muzzle as the frigate ascended.
A dozen glasses were pointed at the schooner fine to larboard. The knot of officers on the quarterdeck muttered their opinions to each other. Drinkwater lingered, retained as messenger to the captain.
'We're closing all right.'
'He still hasn't hoisted colours.'
'There they are.' The American ensign rose to the peak and snapped out in the wind. The schooner was driving forward under too great a press of canvas. White water surged beneath her bow and along her side. A brief puff of smoke appeared, instantly dissipated by the wind. A hole opened in the frigate's forecourse.
'Good shooting by heaven!'
'Aye, and Hon Johnny will be bloody cross…'
Devaux's long nine-pounder barked again. A hole was visible in the schooner's mainsail.
'Quid pro quo,' said Keene.
'What'd you do now?' asked Wheeler of no one in particular.
'I'd stand to windward as fast as I could, once up wind of us he'll get away,' said Lieutenant Price. Everyone knew the schooner, with her fore and aft rig, could haul a bowline faster than a square-rigged frigate, but Price's opinion was contested by Drinkwater who could no longer hold himself silent.
'Beg pardon, Mr Price, but he's his booms to larboard with the wind aft. To stand to wind'ard he has to gybe on to the larboard tack. To do so on the starboard he must needs cross our bow…'
'He'll have to do something,' said Price irritably…
'Look!' said several voices at once.
The American commander knew his business. Aware that his desperate gamble of overcarrying canvas had failed, he decided to stand to windward on the larboard tack. But the risk of a gybe that would carry away gear was unacceptable if he was to escape, and he had to think of something to reduce this risk. Hope had been intently studying the Yankee, had reasoned along the lines that Drinkwater had followed and was anticipating some move by the rebel ship.
What the officers had seen was the scandalising of the two big gaff sails. The wooden gaffs began to hang down on their peak halyards, taking the power out of the canvas. But Hope had already noticed the topping lifts tighten to take the weight of the booms even before the peak halyards were started. He began roaring orders.
'Hands to braces! Move damn you!'
'Foretack! Maintack!'
The officers and men were galvanised to action. Hope looked again at the schooner, her speed had slackened. As Devaux's gun barked again the shot went over. The schooner began to turn. Now her stern was towards Cyclops. Through the glass Drinkwater read her name: Algonquin, Newport. He reported it to Hope. The schooner rolled to starboard as she came round, then her booms whipped over as she gybed. But the Americans were skilful. The main and foresheets were overhauled and the wind spilled from the scandalised sails.
'Down helm!'
'Lee braces!'
'Mainsail haul!'
'Let go an' haul!'
Even as Algonquin's gaffs rose again and her sails were hauled flat, Cyclops was turning. Hope's task was to traverse the base of a triangle the hypotenuse of which formed Algonquin's track. The schooner pointed to windward better than the frigate and if she reached the angle of the triangle before Cyclops, without damage, her escape was almost certain.
On the fo'c's'le Devaux was transferring his attention to the starboard bow chaser as Cyclops steadied on her new course, heeling over under her press of canvas.
A crack came from aloft. The main royal had dissolved into tattered strips.
'Aloft and secure that raffle!'
The Algonquin was pointing well up but still carrying too much canvas. Nevertheless she was head-reaching on the British frigate. For a few minutes the two ships raced on, the wind in the rigging and the hiss of water along their hulls the only significant sounds accompanying their grim contest. Then Devaux fired the starboard bow chaser. The shot passed through Algonquin's mainsail close to the first hole. A seam opened up and the sail flogged in two… three pieces.
Cyclops came up with her victim and hove-to just to windward. The Yankee ensign remained at the gaff.
Hope turned to Drinkwater. 'My compliments to Mr Devaux and he may fire the first division at that fellow.' Drinkwater hurried forward and delivered his message. The first lieutenant descended to the gun-deck and the six leading twelve-pounders in the starboard battery roared their command. The American struck.
'Mr Price, take a midshipman, two quartermasters, two bosun's mates and twenty men. Plymouth or Falmouth, Mr Price. Mr Wheeler, a file of your marines!'
'Aye, aye, sir!'
The long boat was swayed up from the waist and over the side, the yardarms blocks clicking with the efforts of the seamen. Once in the water men tumbled down into it. Drinkwater heard his own name called out by Price.
'Mr Drinkwater, see the Master for our position and a chart.'
'Aye, aye, sir!' The midshipman went in search of Blackmore. The old master was still grumbling about interruptions to his soundings on the Labadie Bank, but he wrote out the estimated latitude and longitude quickly enough. As Drinkwater turned away the old man grabbed his arm.
'Be careful, lad,' he said, full of concern, 'Yon's not like the Don.'
Drinkwater swallowed. In the excitement he had not realised the implications of boarding the prize. He went off to join the longboat. In minutes it was pulling across the water between the two ships.
Once clear of the ship's lee the force of the wind tore off the wave-caps, dashing the spray into the boat. Sergeant Hagan reminded his men to cover their primings and the marines moved as one man to place their hands over the pans. Halfway between Cyclops and Algonquin the longboat swooped into the wave troughs so that only the mastheads of the two ships were visible. Then those of Cyclops receded as those of the rebel ship loomed over them.
Drinkwater had a peculiarly empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was aware of the collective tension of the prize crew as they sat, stony-faced, each man wrapped in his own apprehension. Drinkwater felt vulnerably small, sitting alongside Price, as they took the frail boat over this turbulent circle of the vast ocean. Astern of them Cyclops, the mighty home of thirteen score of men dwindled into insignificance.
Hope had deliberately detailed a large body of men for taking the privateer. He knew she would have a numerous and aggressive crew capable of manning her own prizes. As the longboat neared the privateer Drinkwater realised Blackmore's predictions would be right. This was no comparison with the boarding of the Santa Teresa. There, wrapped in the powerful protection of a victorious fleet, he had felt no qualms. The dramatic circumstances of the Moonlight Battle and the rapid succession of events that had resulted in him accepting a surrendered sword, had combined into an experience of almost sub
lime exhilaration. The remnants of chivalric war were absent now. The bayonets of the marines glittered cruelly. With a dreadful pang of nauseous fear Drinkwater imagined what it would be like to be pierced by so ghastly a weapon. He shrank from the thought.
The next moment they were alongside the schooner.
The twenty seamen followed Price up the side, Hagan and his marines brought up the rear. Lieutenant Price addressed a blue-coated man who appeared to be the commander.
'I must ask you for your vessel's papers, sir.' The blue-coated one turned away.
Sergeant Hagan swept his men through the ship. She had a crew of forty-seven seamen. Having ascertained the large fo'c's'le was secured by one hatch he herded them below. Under the guns of Cyclops three cables distant they went resentfully but without resistance.
Price, having possessed himself of the ship had a man run up British colours and set his men to securing and repairing the mainsail. The privateer's officers were confined in the cabin aft and a marine sentry put on guard. Next the lieutenant turned two of the quarter guns inboard to sweep the deck and had them loaded with grapeshot. The keys of the magazine were secured and the vessel's details passed down into the waiting longboat for return to Cyclops.
With a damaged mainsail Price was limited to the gaff foresail and a staysail but he set course and trimmed the sheets. In twenty-three minutes the privateer Algonquin of Newport, Rhode Island, operating under letters of marque from the Continental Congress was seized by His Britannic Majesty's Navy.
The blue-coated man remained on deck. He was staring at the frigate that had taken his ship from him. The distance between the two vessels was increasing. He banged his fist on the rail then turned to find the British Lieutenant at his elbow.
'I am sorry, sir, to be the agent of your distress, but you are operating illegally under the authority of a rebel organisation which does not possess that authority. Will you give me your parole not to attempt to retake this ship or must I confine you like a felon?' Price's courteously modulated Welsh voice could not disguise his mistrust of the silent American.
At last the man spoke in the colonial drawl.
'You, sir, are the practitioners of piracy. You and all your country's perfidious acts and tyrannous oppressions be damned! I shall give you no parole and I shall take back my ship. You are outnumbered and may rest assured that my men will not take kindly to you confining them forward. You will get little sleep lootenant, so you think on that and be damned to 'ee!'
Blue coat turned away. Price nodded to Hagan who, with two marines, roughly urged the commander below.
Price looked about him. The sail repair was progressing. Midshipman Drinkwater and the two quartermasters had organised the deck, the tiller was manned and the course set for the Channel. Lieutenant Price looked astern. Cyclops was already only a speck on the horizon, resuming her cruise. He felt lonely. During his eight years at sea he had been prizemaster on several occasions but the prizes had invariably been docile, undermanned merchantmen. True their masters and crews had resented capture but they had given little trouble in the face of armed might.
In the dreary years of the war with the Americans the British had learned their opponents possessed an almost unfair capacity for seizing opportunities. True their generalissimo, Washington, continually faced mutiny in his own army, but when the British might be caught at a disadvantage the damned Yankees would appear like magic. Burgoyne had found that out. So had St Leger. Even when the greatest American tactician, Benedict Arnold, changed sides, the laconic British High Command learned too late the value of such talents.
The fate of Lieutenant Price was sealed in that same restless energy. He was surprised, even in death, that men of his own race could treat his humanity with such contempt.
For two days Algonquin steered south east to pass south of the Scillies before hauling up Channel. The big mainsail had been repaired and hoisted. Drinkwater took a keen interest in the sailing of the schooner. Unfamiliar with the qualities of fore and aft rig he was fascinated by her performance. He had no idea a vessel could move so fast with a beam wind and listened with interest when the two quartermasters fell to arguing as to whether it was possible to sail faster than the wind itself. Indeed the fears planted by Blackmore were withering as Nathaniel experienced the joys of independence.
The weather remained sunny and pleasant, the wind light but favourable. The Americans appeared in small groups on deck forward for daily exercise and Sergeant Hagan and his marines saw to the policing of the schooner.
The American mates gave little trouble, remaining confined in one cabin whilst the privateer's commander was locked in the other. They were allowed on deck at different times so that one or other of them was usually to be seen standing close to the mainmast shrouds during daylight.
The principal stern cabin had been seized by Price and the midshipmen whilst the seamen and marines used the hold tween decks for accommodation. This space had been intended to house the crew of prizes taken by the Algonquin.
By the evening of the second day Price had relaxed a little. An hour earlier one of the American sailors had asked to see him. Price had gone forward. A man had stepped out and asked if they could provide a cook since the food they were receiving was making them ill. If the 'lootenant' would agree to this they would promise to behave.
Price considered the matter and agreed they could supply a cook but that no further relaxation of their regimen could be allowed. He estimated his position to be some ten leagues south of the Lizard and hoped to stand north the following day and make Falmouth.
But that night the wind fell light and then died away altogether. As dawn filtered through it revealed a misty morning. The schooner lay rolling in the water as a lazy swell caused her blocks to rattle and her gear to chafe.
When Price was called he was in a passion at the change of weather. By noon there was still no sign of wind and he had the big gaff sails lowered to reduce chafe. The hands were engaged with this work as the American cook went forward, a pot of stew in his hands.
Drinkwater was standing right aft. As the big mainsail was lowered he hove in the slack of the sheet and coiled it down.
There was a sudden scream from forward.
The marine sentry, bending down to open the companionway for the prisoners' cook had had the boiling contents of the pot dashed into his face.
In a trice the American had picked up the marine's musket and threatened the four seamen lowering the foresail. For a split-second every man on Algonquin's deck was motionless then, with a whoop, the Americans were pouring aft. They hurled themselves at the unarmed seamen as the latter let go the halyards, they pulled belaying pins from the rail and rolled aft, a screaming human tide. The foresail came down in a rush, adding to the confusion.
The seamen forward were quickly overpowered but further aft Hagan had got several marines to present. The muskets cracked and three Americans went down. Lieutenant Price lugged out his hanger and leapt for the lanyard of the starboard quarter gun. He tugged it. A flash and roar emanated through the fog as the grape cut a swathe through friend and foe. Momentarily the human tide was stemmed. Then it rolled aft again.
Drinkwater remained rooted to the spot. This was all a dream. In a moment the fog would clear and Algonquin become her ordered self again. A pistol ball smacked into the rail beside him. He saw Price, mouth drawn back into a snarl, whirling the slender hanger. One, two rebels received its needle point in their bodies then, with a sickening thud, a handspike whirled by a giant half-caste Indian split the lieutenant's skull.
Drinkwater suddenly felt inexplicably angry. Nothing could withstand the furious onslaught of the Americans. He was dimly aware of struggling British seamen and marines being held by three or four of the privateersmen. He knew he was about to die and felt furious at the knowledge. He choked on his rage, tears leaping into his eyes. Suddenly his dirk was in his hand and he was lunging forward. The big half-caste saw him coming too late. The man had picked up P
rice's hanger out of curiosity. Suddenly aware of the midshipman rushing towards him he bent and held it outwards like a hunting knife.
Drinkwater remembered his fencing. As the Indian jabbed the sword upwards Drinkwater's dirk took the hanger's foible in a semi-circular parry. Taking the blade he exerted a prise-de-fer, raised his point and his own momentum forced his toy weapon into the stomach of the Indian.
The man howled with pain and surprise as they collided. Then he collapsed on top of him. For a moment Drinkwater's anger evaporated into sudden, chilling fear, a fear mingled with an overwhelming sense of relief. Then he received a blow on the head and was plunged into a whirlpool of oblivion.
* * * *
When Drinkwater recovered consciousness it was several minutes before he realised what had happened. He was confused by total darkness and a regular creaking sound that terminated in a number of almost simultaneous dull knocks before starting again.
'Wh… where the hell am I?' he asked out loud.
A groan came from alongside him. Then a hand grasped his knee.
'Mister Drinkwater?' A strained voice enquired, pain and anxiety in the tone of it.
'Yes.'
'Grattan, sir, marine.'
'Eh… Oh, yes.'
'We're in the fo'c's'le… just the wounded, sir…'
'Wounded?'
'Aye, sir, you were unconscious. My arm's broken…'
'Oh, I'm sorry…'
'Thank you, sir.' Drinkwater's brain was beginning to grasp the situation and an enormous and painful bump on the crown of his head testified to the accuracy of the marine's report. Recollection came back to him. He sat up and took stock.
'What's that noise then?'
'Sweepin', sir… that's what the others are doin'.'
Before he could ask more the hatch flew open. A few cold drops of moisture dripped into Drinkwater's upturned face, then the shape of a man lowering himself down blotted out the foggy daylight.
An Eye of the Fleet Page 9