The Flying Squadron

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Frey replied with a grin.

  Half an hour before sunset Drinkwater called away his barge. The knowledge that the deserters were aboard the Stingray gave him some comfort, for Stewart would keep them closer watched than Metcalfe. Whether or not Stewart would keep his secret until after Patrician’s departure or make some demonstration embarrassing to Drinkwater remained to be seen. The man harboured a deep resentment against the British and, it was obvious, saw the Patrician’s commander as the embodiment of all he disliked. But there was also an ungovernably passionate streak, a rash impetuosity to offset a deep intelligence; that much Drinkwater had deduced from the man’s indiscreet drunkenness. Much might also be read from his sister . . .

  However, he must dissemble, to gull as he had been gulled, to convince his people that he would not tolerate desertion.

  Shaw received him in his dressing-room.

  ‘I had your note, Captain Drinkwater.’

  ‘I apologize for troubling you and hope that my men have not been over-intrusive upon your land, Mr Shaw.’

  ‘Not over-intrusive, no,’ Shaw replied, his resentment clearly aroused by the minor invasion of the day.

  ‘I apologise unreservedly, sir, if any damage has been caused . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ Shaw waved aside the suggestion that anything more than his sense of propriety had sustained injury.

  ‘And I apologize at the inconvenience of the hour, it is intolerable of me . . .’

  ‘Please sit down, Captain. Will you join us for dinner? Arabella will be delighted to see you; she sure enjoyed your company yesterday.’

  ‘Thank you, no, sir,’ Drinkwater said, remaining standing. He longed to see Arabella again, for all the pain and remorse it would cause him. ‘My official affairs are, alas, more pressing. Perhaps I may wait upon Mistress Shaw at a later date, but for the nonce I must perforce ask you to convey my felicitations to her. My presence is, er, a matter of some delicacy . . .’ Drinkwater shot a glance at Shaw’s negro valet.

  Shaw dismissed the man. ‘Come, sir, you have time to sit and take a glass.’

  ‘Obliged, sir.’ Drinkwater was not loathe to comply. Shaw poured from a handy bottle on a side-table. They mutually toasted each other’s health. ‘The point is’, Drinkwater went on, leaning forward in his chair to give his words both urgency and confidentiality, ‘this affair of deserters is a damnable nuisance. I must make every effort to regain ’em, for my Service, my reputation and general appearances, not to mention pour discourager les autres,’ he said in his poor French, ‘but I wish to do nothin’ which might provoke a suspension of negotiations, Vansittart was most tellin’ upon this point. It seems, from your discussions with him last night, there are men in Washington seekin’ some new impropriety on our part, like Humphries’ cavalier behaviour towards the Chesapeake, to make a casus bellum . . .’

  ‘That is surely true, Captain. They are mostly from New England, hawks we have styled them, perhaps foolishly, for a hawk has a greater appeal than a dove, I allow. But I don’t follow why . . .’

  ‘I know where the men are, Mr Shaw . . .’

  ‘You do?’ Shaw’s eyebrows rose with astonishment. ‘Where?’

  ‘Aboard the United States sloop-of-war Stingray.’

  ‘The hell they are!’

  ‘I feel sure thay have been given asylum by Captain Stewart . . .’

  ‘Have you sent word to Charles? Asked for them back?’

  ‘Mr Shaw, you saw Captain Stewart’s attitude to British interests last night. I am not insensible to the fact that he may be personally justified in all his resentments, but I am convinced he would refuse me the return of my men as a matter of principle. Why, I think he would delight in it.’

  ‘He certainly has a thirst for glory.’

  ‘And took against me personally, I believe.’

  Shaw nodded. ‘I fear so, Captain. Then you want me to approach him, to persuade him to relinquish your deserters?’

  ‘Yes, if you would. It would be the simplest answer.’

  Shaw sighed and rubbed his chin. ‘What would you do with them? You would have to punish them, would you not?’

  ‘Aye, sir, but I am not an inhumane man. Whatever I decided I would not carry out in American waters and properly I can do nothing until they have been court-martialed.’

  ‘I don’t follow . . . would you act improperly?’

  ‘I could deem them guilty of a lesser crime and hence a lesser punishment . . .’

  ‘And simply flog ’em? Pardon me, but the forces of Great Britain have a certain reputation for brutality. I too lived before the Revolution, Captain.’

  ‘I believe General Washington ordered corporal punishment for breaking ranks and deserting, Mr Shaw. It is a not uncommon, if regrettable thing in war.’

  ‘But my country is not at war and I want no part in precipitating any such misery on another . . .’

  ‘I admire your sensibilities, Mr Shaw, but my country is at war.’ Drinkwater mastered his exasperation. Shaw, it seemed, wanted to be all things to all men. He thought of Thurston, the idealist without responsibility. Now this wealthy man could keep his conscience clean by stepping round the problem. I am of the middling sort, he thought ironically, the sort that thrust the affairs of the world along day by day. ‘I can only give you my word of honour that I will be lenient . . .’

  ‘Be more specific, sir. To what extent will your leniency diminish your sentence of retribution?’

  ‘I will order them no more than a dozen lashes.’

  ‘Good God, sir, a dozen?’

  ‘How many do you give your slaves, Mr Shaw?’ Drinkwater was stung to riposte, regretting the turn the conversation had taken.

  ‘That is an entirely different matter,’ Shaw snapped. Then, struck by a thought and measuring the English officer, he added, ‘Hell! Don’t get any ideas about making up your crew from my plantation.’

  Drinkwater attempted to defuse the atmosphere with a grin. ‘I could promise them a nominal freedom aboard a man-o’-war,’ he remarked drily, ‘but I would not, you have my word,’ he added hurriedly, seeing the colour rising in Shaw’s face.

  Shaw blew out his cheeks. ‘Damn me, sir, this is a pretty kettle o’ fish.’

  Drinkwater seized this moment of weakness. ‘I want only to avoid a collision, Mr Shaw. If you cannot be advocate perhaps you could merely ask; let Stewart know I am aware he is harbouring my men. The burden of conscience will then be upon him, will it not?’

  ‘That is true . . .’

  Drinkwater rose, ‘I have kept you from your table, sir, and I am sorry for it. Perhaps you might consider consulting Mistress Shaw, in any event please present my compliments; she struck me as a woman of good sense. It is my experience that most women know their own minds, and what is best for their menfolk too.’

  Shaw rose and held out his hand. Both men smiled the complicit understanding of male confraternity.

  ‘Perhaps I will, Captain, perhaps I will,’ Shaw said smiling.

  And partially satisfied, Drinkwater walked down towards the boat upon the lush, shadowed and terraced lawn. There existed stronger and more instantaneous bonds than those of chauvinism, bonds whose strength and extent were mysteries but whose existence was undeniable.

  CHAPTER 10

  September 1811

  The Parthian Shot

  They lay in this limbo of uncertainty for eight days, one, it seemed to those disposed to seek signs amid the random circumstances of life, for every deserter. The fall of the year came slowly, barely yet touching these low latitudes, so the very air enervated them and the pastoral beauty of the scene was slowly soured by idleness and a lack of communication with the shore.

  The Patricians, unpatrician-like, still pulled their miserable guard round themselves, while the Stingrays regularly ferried their commander ashore. It was clear to Drinkwater that although Shaw might have spoken to Stewart about the advantages accruing to an honest, open, apple-pie handover of the
British deserters, the appeal had fallen on deaf ears. Since they now caught no more than an occasional glimpse of their men, Drinkwater knew that Stewart was guarding his prizes closer still.

  To keep the pot boiling Drinkwater dispatched Frey in the launch for a three-day expedition along the Virginia and Maryland shores and Stewart had, perforce, to send a shadowing boat. As for Arabella, Drinkwater saw her three or four times as she rode out. Once they exchanged greetings, she with a wave, he with a doffing of his hat, but on the other occasions, distance prevented these formalities.

  The lack of hospitality on Shaw’s part discouraged Drinkwater and, when he sent an invitation to Shaw and his daughter-in-law to dine as his guests aboard Patrician (Lieutenant Gordon’s questing boat-party having disturbed a covey of game birds), it was declined on the grounds of Mr Shaw’s absence.

  Drinkwater tried to convince himself all parties awaited the outcome of negotiations before re-establishing amicable relations, but he knew the matter of the deserters had come between them all. As for Arabella herself, he thought she wished to distance herself from him and respected her wishes. Besides, he had no desire to make a fool of himself.

  ‘Why did Vansittart have to go via Baltimore, sir?’ Frey asked on his return. He had made his report and he and Drinkwater had been consulting a chart, Frey tracing his aimless track along the shores of Chesapeake Bay. ‘The Potomac leads directly up to Washington.’

  ‘A matter of formalities, I suppose,’ replied Drinkwater absently, filling two glasses. ‘Perhaps they did not wish him to see the defences of Washington, or reconnoitre so obvious an approach.’

  ‘He’ll come back the same way, then?’

  ‘I imagine so. I’ve really no idea.’

  ‘I wish we were back, sir,’ Frey said suddenly.

  ‘Back? Where?’

  ‘In home waters, off Ushant, in the Mediterranean, the Baltic, anywhere but here. God, we’re not liked hereabouts.’

  ‘We’re an old enemy, Mr Frey . . . Tell me have you executed any watercolours lately? I believe you were working on a folio . . .’

  ‘Oh, those, no, I have abandoned the project.’ Something wistfully regretful in Frey’s tone prompted Drinkwater to probe.

  ‘Not like you to abandon anything.’

  ‘No, maybe not, sir, but this occasion proved the rule.’

  ‘The wardroom’s not the most conducive place, eh? Do ’em in here, I could do with a little society.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think that a good idea . . .’

  ‘Oh, why not . . . ? Ah, I see, presuming on our previous acquaintance, eh?’

  ‘Something of the sort, sir.’

  ‘Who? Not Moncrieff . . .’ He knew already, but wanted to see if Frey’s admission would back his hunch.

  ‘No, no, not Moncrieff, sir, he’s a good fellow . . .’

  ‘Well, Wyatt then, he’s no aesthete, though I’d have baulked at calling him a Philistine.’

  ‘No, old Wyatt’s a marline-spike officer, not well-versed, but experienced. I find the first lieutenant . . .’

  ‘A difficult man, eh?’

  ‘An inconsistent man, sir,’ Frey admitted tactfully, the wine having its effect.

  ‘Ah, diplomatic, Mr Frey, I must remember your talents in that direction. Perhaps you should have gone to Washington in place of Vansittart. He is certainly a curious fellow.’

  ‘Vansittart, sir?’ Frey frowned.

  ‘No,’ Drinkwater grinned, ‘Metcalfe . . .’

  It was good to see Captain Drinkwater smiling, Frey thought as he finished his glass, it reminded him of happier times. There was something sinister about this interminable wait, knowing the deserters were within easy reach of them and that they possessed superior force and could scarcely be condemned for insisting their own be returned to them. Frey had, moreover, heard it expressed in a deliberate lower deck stage whisper meant for his ears, that was it not for Captain Drinkwater himself being in command, there would have been more than a handful of deserters.

  Drinkwater, regarding his young protégé, wondered what sort of impositions Frey suffered in the wardroom. He had written Metcalfe off as an adequate but fossicking officer whose chief vice was irritation. It had not occurred to him that he was a contrary influence.

  ‘Well, well, I had no idea.’

  ‘There is something else, sir, something you should know about.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The men are very restless, sir. I am concerned about it if we are forced to wait much longer.’

  ‘Be patient, Mr Frey. I like this state of affairs no better than you or the hands, but we are tied to Vansittart’s apron strings.’

  And with that Frey took his dismissal. So downcast was his mood, he thought Drinkwater merely temporizing and failed to catch the faint intimation of a purpose in the captain’s words.

  Mr Pym was as new to Patrician and her commander as most of the other officers. However, he was not new to the Royal Navy, having been an assistant surgeon at Haslar Naval Hospital when Mr Lallo, the ship’s former surgeon, was found dead in his cot. Pym had accepted the vacancy in a frigate ordered on special service with alacrity. He was an indolent, easy-going man who found his wife and seven children as heavy a burden upon his tolerance as his purse. He had subdued his wife’s protests with the consolation that he could at last drop the ‘assistant’ from his title and would receive a small increase in his emolument. Having thus satisfied her social pretensions, he had packed his instruments with his beloved books and contentedly joined Patrician.

  Mr Pym was a quiet, private man. He possessed a kind heart, though he saw this as a vice since it had trapped him into a late marriage and ensured his broody and doting wife fell pregnant with dismal regularity, a circumstance which surprised and flattered his ageing self. He guarded this soft-heartedness, having learned early in his career not to display it aboard ship. Furthermore, like most easy-going and indolent men he was basically of a selfish disposition. The charm he possessed was used to ward off invasion of his privacy, and this latter he employed chiefly in reading. Books were Pym’s secret delight.

  He played cards with Wyatt, partly because they were of an age, but also by way of a break, a form, he told himself, of exercise between his voracious bouts of reading. As for his duties, he attended to these easily, holding a morning surgery, after which he spent the day as he pleased. Once a week, for the purpose of presenting the sick-book and discussing the state of the ship’s company’s health, he waited upon the captain.

  Professionally he was not over-taxed. There were the usual crop of diseases: mostly skin complaints and an asthmatic or two, a few rheumatic cases, men with the usual minor venereal infections, coupled with a baker’s dozen of the inevitable hernias found aboard any man-of-war. There was nothing, it seemed, of a surgical, nor indeed of a general medical nature to interest Pym, and this rather disappointed him.

  He had, as a young man, studied at St Bartholomew’s under the lame, scrofulous, supercilious and misanthropic physician Mark Akenside. Under Akenside’s influence, he had aspired to greatness at an age when all things seem possible to the young and they have yet to discover the limitations of their energies, gifts and circumstances.

  Early in life he had fallen into bad company, a mildly dissolute life and debt. The Royal Navy put distance between himself and his creditors, gave him back his character and kept him out of harm’s way; but ambition continued to nag, and believing success came from change rather than effort, he accepted a post at Haslar. Here he found himself relegated to the second class and sought consolation in marriage with its consequent burdensome family. The appointment to Patrician presented him, therefore, with a new opportunity.

  As with many unimaginative and idly ambitious men, Pym failed to see any opportunity fate cast in his way. Obsessed with the end itself, he missed anything which might, with a little application, have provided him with the means. His books were too good a diversion, too absorbin
g a hobby. They tied up his mind, leaving it only room to brood upon his failure.

  Until, in the hiatus of lying at anchor in the Potomac, he finished them.

  To this disaster was now added a trail of men with imagined complaints. The artificial nature of exercises designed to keep them busy fostered a resentment only fuelled by the desertions. It was common knowledge on the lower deck that Thurston and his companions were aboard the Stingray. This, and the continuing useless search parties when each man was tempted from his duty by both the abuse offered when they came into contact with Americans and the healthy prosperity of the local population, combined to keep the pot of discontent simmering. Nor did the weather help. Warm and largely windless, the poorly ventilated berth deck became stifling, despite the burning of gunpowder and sloppings of vinegar solution.

  ‘They are’, Pym announced to the dining officers, ‘rotten with the corrupting disease of valetudinarianism.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Wyatt, his mouth full.

  ‘Malingering,’ Metcalfe explained.

  Pym made a mock bow to the first lieutenant for stealing his own thunder which Metcalfe, helping himself to another slice of roast snipe, did not see but which tickled Frey’s sense of humour so that he first laughed and then choked.

  Metcalfe looked up. ‘What’s so damned funny?’

  Frey spluttered and went purple. ‘God, he’s not laughing!’ Moncrieff rose and slammed a hearty palm between Frey’s shoulder blades. The piece of wing dislodged itself and flew across the table on to Metcalfe’s plate.

  ‘God damn you for an insolent puppy,’ Metcalfe exploded, and in the same instant Pym received inspiration and enlightenment. He knew Metcalfe had not seen his own rudeness for he had been looking at the first lieutenant when he produced his little sarcasm. He knew his own mood was due to his having run out of books. A vague idea was stirring that a sure cure to his problem was to write one of his own, though the thought of the necessary effort bothered him. Parallel with these undercurrents of thought had been a detached observation of the first lieutenant’s conduct. In this as in much else, Pym was lazy, blind to the clinical opportunity the concupiscence of a frigate’s wardroom gave him. He merely concluded Metcalfe would, like so many other naval officers of his era, end up raving in Haslar.