The Flying Squadron

by Richard Woodman

  ‘You have explained to me, sir, at least in part, but may I presume?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We are on the defensive now. Even our blockading squadrons keep watch and ward off the French ports as the first line of defence against invasion. To some extent I share Wyatt’s misgivings. We are a long way from home. Our present passage to the South Atlantic exposes our rear when every ship should be sealing home waters against the enemy. That is where, I have heard you yourself say, American privateers struck hardest during the last war. I fear, sir, for what may happen if you have miscalculated . . .’

  Drinkwater gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘So do I, James,’ he interrupted.

  ‘How are you so sure?’

  ‘Because if I were in the same position this is what I would do.’

  ‘And you really think it is him? This man Stewart?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t really know . . .’

  ‘Then how can you be sure of his mind?’

  ‘I can’t be entirely sure of it, James . . .’

  ‘But,’ Quilhampton expostulated vainly, frustrated at Drinkwater’s failure to see where the decision to sail south might lead them, ‘a month ago you were in doubt as to how to proceed . . .’

  ‘But we reasoned here, in this very cabin, the interception of the East India fleet was the most likely thing,’ Drinkwater paused. ‘Come, James, have faith; stick like a limpet to your decision.’ There was a vehemence, a wildness in Drinkwater’s voice, almost a passion that disturbed Quilhampton. It just then occurred to him with a vivid awfulness that Drinkwater might indeed be on the verge of madness. He stared at his friend and tried again: ‘But how . . . ?’

  ‘By the prickin’ of my thumbs,’ Drinkwater said, looking down at the chart again, and Quilhampton withdrew, a cold and chilling sensation laying siege to his heart.

  ‘What do you think, damn it?’ Quilhampton asked Pym as the surgeon, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, looked up from the candlelit pages that he held before him against the roll of the ship. ‘They’re your confounded theories, ain’t they? All this bloody obsession and conviction and what-not. Damn it, Pym, I’ve known the man since I was a boy. He’s brilliant, but dogged like so many of us with never quite bein’ in the right place at the right time. He got me out of Hamburg in terrible circumstances, all the way down the Elbe in the winter in a blasted duck-punt . . .’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that.’

  ‘D’you think the ordeal might have turned his mind?’

  Pym shrugged. ‘This’, he tapped the notes he had abandoned when Quilhampton sought him out, ‘is no more than a theory, based on a single case, that of your predecessor. I don’t know about Drinkwater . . . You say he’s changed?’

  The use of Drinkwater’s unqualified surname shocked Quilhampton. It almost smacked of mutiny, as if Pym, in his detached, objectively professional way, had actually committed a preliminary act by divesting Drinkwater of his rank. Quilhampton shied away from committing himself.

  ‘Certainly,’ Pym rumbled on, ‘there are signs of obsession in his conduct, but I have to say we are not party to his orders and, as you yourself suggested, these may be of a clandestine nature. Wasn’t he in Hamburg on some such mission?’

  ‘Yes,’ Quilhampton agreed, worried at the direction the conversation was taking.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Pym suggested with an air of slyness, removing his spectacles and leaning back in his chair to clean them on his neck-cloth, ‘there is something else the matter.’

  ‘What the deuce d’you mean?’ Quilhampton asked sharply.

  ‘You’ve heard the stories of the woman. Perhaps it isn’t obsession he suffers from, but remorse . . .’

  ‘Preposterous!’ snapped Quilhampton dismissively, starting to his feet and looking down at the surgeon.

  ‘If you say so, Mr Q.’ Pym replaced the spectacles and picked up his pen.

  ‘I most emphatically do say so, Mr Pym.’ Quilhampton turned the handle on the surgeon’s cabin door, then paused in his exit. ‘This conversation, Mr Pym, must be regarded as confidential.’

  ‘We can regard it as never having happened if you wish, Mr Q.’

  Quilhampton expelled his breath. ‘It would be best, I think.’

  ‘I think so too.’

  ‘Obliged. Good-night, Mr Pym.’

  Pym bent to his manuscript and picked up his pen. The ship’s motion was easier now and the lantern gyrated less, so he was able to write without the flying shadows distracting his failing sight.

  It seems to me from a long observation of commanders in His Majesty’s navy, that unopposed command may distort the reasoning powers of a clever man, that the balance of his rational, thinking mind may be warped by lack of good counter-argument and his imagination seized by obsession.

  Pym paused, tapping his pen on the broken teeth of his lower jaw. ‘The trouble is,’ he puzzled to himself, ‘this is quite the reverse of a man vacillating between two distinct manners of thought. And if I am to identify the one, I needs must also consider the other.’

  A warm glow of ambitious satisfaction welled in his stomach. Perhaps, unlike his subjects, he was in the right place at the right time. He dipped his pen and bent to his task.

  CHAPTER 15

  December 1812-January 1813

  The Whaler

  ‘The rendezvous, gentlemen.’ Drinkwater tapped the spread chart with the closed points of the dividers and watched as they leaned forward to study the tiny, isolated archipelago a few miles north of the Equator and already far astern of them as they ran down the latitude of Ascension Island. ‘St Paul’s Rocks, as likely a spot for the Americans to use too, so ensure you approach them with caution, should you become detached, and that you use the private signals . . .’

  He looked round at them. Ashby was still studying the chart but Thorowgood’s florid face, evidence, Drinkwater suspected, of a self-indulgent Christmas, hung on his every word, while Sundercombe, a mere lieutenant in the company of four post-captains, regarded him thoughtfully from the rear.

  ‘Now as for our cruising station, you will observe the rhumb-line from Ascension to St Helena as being exactly contrary to the south-east trade wind . . .’

  They would, he explained, sweep in extended line abreast, the frigates just in sight of one another, tacking at dawn and dusk, in the hope of intercepting the East India convoy before any American privateers.

  ‘We know the Indiamen will have at least one frigate as escort, but Yankee clipper-schooners will have no trouble outmanoeuvring her and cutting out the choicest victims at their will. News of hostilities with America will have reached the Cape by now and it may be that a second cruiser will have been attached; not that that will make very much difference. However, four additional frigates plus a schooner to match Yankee nimbleness’, he paused and smiled at Sundercombe, ‘should bring the convoy home safely. Any questions?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Ashby, ‘may I enquire whether your orders were to escort the East Indiamen, or remain on the American coast? I mean no criticism, but had we proceeded directly to the Cape we would have met with the India fleet for a certainty.’

  A groundswell of concurrence rose from the other post-captains. Drinkwater had no way of knowing that the news of the silk petticoat had spread round the squadron by that mysterious telegraphy which exists among ships in company. Sprite’s tendering and message-bearing had much to do with it, and the breath of intrigue had engendered a note of misgiving into the minds of Drink-water’s young and ambitious juniors.

  For himself, his own sense of guilt had been superseded by the conviction that he had picked up a vital trail at Castle Point, and he saw in Ashby’s mildly impertinent question, full of the criticism he denied, the arrogance of young bucks seeking the downfall of an old bull. He lacked in their eyes, he knew, the bold dash expected of a frigate captain, and was, moreover, a tarpaulin officer of an older school than they cared to associate with.
He knew, too, they had objected to his burning of the Louise. Tyrell, by being in sight in Hasty, would have had a legitimate claim to the prize money her sale might have realized, while the general principle of burning valuable prizes appealed to none of them. Ashby’s question invited a snub; he decided to administer a lecture. Signalling Mullender to offer wine and sweet-treacle biscuits to his guests, he stared out of the stern windows. Only the lightest of breezes ruffled the sea and Patrician ghosted along, the other frigates’ boats towing in the slight ripples of her wake. He knew from the silence, broken only by the soft chink of decanter on glass, that they waited for his reply. He swung on them with a sudden, unexpected ferocity.

  ‘You cannot buy yourself into the sea-service, gentle men, as you can into the army. A ship-of-the-line is not to be had like a regiment or a whore. Oh, to be sure, interest, be it parliamentary or petticoat, sees many a fool up the quarterdeck ladder. But that does not prevent an able man getting there, though it stops many. Fortunately for the sea-service that peculiarly snobbish genius of the English, that of giving the greater glory to what costs ’em most, is absent in principle from naval promotion.’

  He paused, glaring at them, gratified to see in their eyes the expressions of the midshipmen they once had been.

  ‘Nevertheless, a deal of useless articles have arrived on quarterdecks. Since Lord Nelson’s apotheosis at Trafalgar, the Royal Navy has appealed to the second of England’s vices after snobbery: that of fashion. How a service which accepts boys to be sodomized or killed at twelve or thirteen, poxed at eighteen and shot or knighted by their majority should become fashionable, is a matter for philosophers more objective than myself. All I know is that those of us who remember the last war with the Americans, if we aren’t rotting ashore, dead, or been promoted to flags or dockyards, have been consigned to the living entombment of blockade, whilst injudiciously fashionable young men command our cruisers and risk destruction at the hands of the Americans . . .’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘What the devil d’you want?’ Drinkwater broke off his diatribe, aware that Belchambers had been hovering by the door for some time. ‘Excuse me a moment, gentlemen,’ Drinkwater said, secretly delighted that Thorow-good was nearly purple with fury and Ashby’s eyes glittered dangerously. Tyrell was studying his nails.

  ‘The wind’s freshening a trifle, sir, and Mr Quilhampton says there’s a strange sail coming up from the south’ard. She’s carrying a wind and looks to be a whaler.’

  The news transformed the gathering, the whiff of a prize, a Yankee whaler, affected them all, with the exception of their commodore.

  ‘Shall we go on deck, gentlemen, and see what we make of this newcomer before you return to your ships?’

  The notion of waiting aboard Patrician while the whaler closed the squadron obviously irritated them still further. Coolly Drinkwater led the way past the ramrod figure of the marine sentry and up the quarterdeck ladder.

  ‘British colours, sir.’

  Quilhampton, who had the deck, lowered his glass and offered it to Drinkwater. Behind them the knot of frustrated frigate commanders and Lieutenant Sundercombe, who stood slightly apart and gravitated towards Mr Wyatt beside the binnacle, drew pocket-glasses from their tail pockets. With irritable snaps the telescopes were raised.

  ‘Maybe a ruse,’ growled Thorowgood in a stage whisper.

  ‘Indeed it might,’ Ashby added archly.

  The whaler, her low rig extended laterally by studding sails, came up from the south with a bone in her teeth. Gradually her sails fell slack as she closed the British frigates and her way fell off.

  ‘I think not, gentlemen, she’s losing the wind and lowering a boat.’

  They watched as the whaleboat danced over the wavelets towards Patrician, the most advanced of the squadron.

  ‘He’s pulling pell-mell. Ain’t he afraid we might press such active fellows?’ Drinkwater asked in an aside to Quilhampton.

  ‘D’you want me to, sir?’

  ‘I think we should see what he has to say, Mr Q,’ Drinkwater replied.

  The whaleboat swung parallel to the Patrician’s side, half a pistol-shot to starboard.

  ‘Good-day, sir,’ Drinkwater called, standing conspicuously beside the hance. ‘You seem in a damned hurry.’

  ‘Aye, sir, I’ve news, damnable news. Do I have to shout it out, or may I come aboard with the promise that you won’t molest my men?’

  ‘Come aboard. You have my word on the matter of your men.’ Drinkwater’s heart was suddenly thumping excitedly in his breast. A sense of anticipation filled him, a sense of luck and providence conspiring to bring him at last the news he so desired.

  The whaling master clambered over the rail. He was a big, bluff, elderly man, dressed in an old-fashioned brown coat with grey breeches and red woollen stockings, despite the warmth of the day. He drew off his hat and revealed a bald pate and a fringe of long, lank hair.

  ‘I’m Cap’n Hugh Orwig, master of the whaling barque Altair homeward bound towards Milford,’ the man said in a rush, waving aside any introductions Drinkwater might have felt propriety compelled him to offer, ‘you’ll be after news of the Yankee frigate.’

  ‘What Yankee frigate?’ Drinkwater asked sharply.

  ‘You ain’t chasing a Yankee frigate?’

  ‘Not specifically, but if you’ve news of one at large . . .’

  ‘News, Cap’n? Bloody hell, I’ve news for you, aye, all of you,’ he nodded at the semi-circle of gold epaulettes that caught the sunshine as they drew closer.

  ‘I heard yesterday, from a Portuguese brig, that a big Yankee frigate has taken the Java, British frigate . . .’

  ‘Stap me . . .’ An explosion of incredulity behind him caused Drinkwater to turn and glare at his subordinates.

  ‘The Java, you say . . . ?’ He could not place the ship.

  ‘A former Frenchman, sir,’ Ashby said smoothly, ‘formerly the Renommée, taken off Madagascar in May, the year before last, by Captain Schomberg’s squadron. I believe Lambert to have been in command.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Ashby.’ Drinkwater returned to Orwig. ‘D’you know the name of the American frigate?’

  ‘No, sir, but I don’t think she was the same as took the Macedonian.’

  ‘What’s that you say? The Macedonian’s been taken too?’

  ‘Aye, Cap’n, didn’t you know? I fell in with another Milford ship, the Martha, Cap’n Raynes; cruising for Sperm we were, off Martin Vaz, and he told me the Macedonian had been knocked to pieces by the United States, said the alarm had gone out there was a Yankee squadron at large . . .’

  ‘God’s bones!’

  The sense of having been caught out laid its cold fingers round Drinkwater’s heart. The American ships must have left from New York or Boston; they could have slipped past within a few miles of his own vessels! It was quite possible the Americans would attempt to combine their heavy frigates with a swarm of privateers, privateers with trained but surplus naval officers like Stewart and, perhaps, Lieutenant Tucker, to command them. It struck him that if such a thing occurred, the United States navy might quadruple itself at a stroke, greatly reducing the assumed superiority of the Royal Navy! The thought made his blood run cold and about him it had precipitated a buzz of angry reaction.

  ‘When did this happen?’ he heard Ashby asking Orwig.

  ‘Sometime in October, I think. Off the Canaries, Raynes said,’ Orwig replied, adding in a surprised tone, ‘I thought you gennelmen would have knowed.’

  ‘No, sir, we did not know.’ Ashby’s tone was icily accusatory, levelled at Drinkwater as though, in condemning his superior officer for glaring into one crystal ball, he had failed to divine the truth in another, and taking Drinkwater’s silence for bewilderment.

  ‘Well, we know now,’ Drinkwater said, rounding on them, ‘and the India fleet is all the more in need of our protection.’ Quilhampton caught his attention; the first lieutenant’s face was twisted with anxiety an
d apprehension.

  ‘You’ll be seekin’ convoy, Captain Orwig?’ Drinkwater enquired.

  Orwig nodded, then shook his head. ‘You’ll not be able to spare it, Cap’n, not if the Yankees are as good as they seem and you’ve the India fleet to consider. Leadenhall Street will not forgive you if you lose them their annual profit.’

  Drinkwater had no need to contemplate the consequences of the displeasure of the Court of Directors of the Honourable East India Company. ‘And you, Captain,’ he said, warming to the elderly man’s consideration, ‘how long did it take you to fill your barrels?’

  ‘Three years, sir, an’ in all three oceans.’

  ‘Then you shall have convoy, sir, and my hand upon it. I would not have you or your company end a three-year voyage in American hands. Captain Tyrell . . .’

  ‘Sir?’ Tyrell stepped forward.

  ‘I will write you out orders in a few moments, the sense of which will be to take Captain Orwig, and such other British merchantmen as you may sight, under your protection and convoy them to Milford Haven and then Plymouth. You will take also my dispatches and there await the instructions of their Lordships. Please take this opportunity to discuss details with Captain Orwig.’ Drink-water ignored the astonished look on Tyrell’s face and addressed Ashby, Thorowgood and Sundercombe. ‘Return to your ships, if you please, gentlemen. We will proceed as we agreed the moment I have written Captain Tyrell’s orders. Your servant, gentlemen; Captain Orwig, a safe passage; Captain Tyrell, I’d be obliged if you’d wait upon me when you have concluded your business with Orwig.’

  In his cabin Drinkwater drew pen, ink and paper towards him and wrote furiously for twenty minutes. He first addressed a brief report of proceedings to the Admiralty, stating he had reason to believe a force of privateers was loose in the South Atlantic. That much, insubstantial as it was in fact, yet justified the detachment of Hasty. Next he wrote to his wife, enclosing the missive with his private letter to Lord Dungarth to whom he gave vent to his concern over an American frigate squadron supported by private auxiliaries operating on the British trade routes. He was completing this last when Tyrell knocked and came in.