The master's mate spat overside and snarled at his boat's crew, 'Give way you damned lubbers.'
During the forenoon the wife of the man Sharples made her appearance at the entry port. She was very young and, though few knew it, had made the journey from Chatham purely on the chance of seeing her husband. The journey had taken a week and her expectant condition had made of it a nightmare.
But Sharples had seen her board and embraced her at the entry port amid the sentimental cheers of his messmates. No one had seen the sour look on the face of Mr Midshipman Morris who happened to be passing at the time. No one, that is, except Tregembo who, by another coincidence, was in search of Morris.
As Sharples and his wife, clasped together, stepped over the prostrate, active bodies, oblivious of the parodies of love enacted all about them, Tregembo stepped up to Morris and touched his forelock.
'Beg pardon, Mr Morris,' said Tregembo with exaggerated politeness, 'Lieutenant Keene's orders and will ye take the launch over to flag for orders.'
Morris snarled at Tregembo then a gleam of viciousness showed in his eyes. Calling a bosun's mate known for 'starting' he strode forward. As he went he called men's names. They were the least desirable of Cyclops's company. A few, otherwise engaged, told him to go to the devil, one or two he let off, the rest he left to the bosun's mate.
At the forward end of the gun-deck Morris ran his quarry to earth. Sharples and his wife lay on the deck. Her head was pillowed on his hammock and her face wore a look of unbelieving horror. Her man, father of her unborn child whose image she had cherished, lay sobbing in her arms. The whole foul story of Morris had poured out of him for there was no way he could be a man to her until he had unburdened himself. Sharples was unaware of the presence of Morris until the author of his misfortune had been standing over the pair for a whole minute.
'Sharples!' called Morris in a voice which cut through the unhappy man's monologue. 'You are required for duty.'
The girl knew instinctively the identity of the intruder and struggled to her knees. 'No! No!' she protested.
Morris grinned. 'Are you questioning my orders?'
The girl faced Morris, biting her lip.
'I can report you for obstructing an officer in the execution of his duty. The punishment is a flogging… your husband is already guilty of disobeying orders in having a hammock out of the nettings…' He spat the words in her face. This threat to his wife revived Sharples who pulled his wife gently aside.
'W-what orders, Mr Morris?'
'Man the launch.'
The topman hesitated. He was not in the boat's crew. 'Aye, aye;' then turning to his wife he whispered 'I'll be back.'
The girl collapsed sobbing on the deck and one of the older women, to whom midshipmen were small fry, put an arm around her. A stream of filth followed Morris down the deck.
The launch was absent three hours. After a while the girl, disgusted with the scenes on the gun-deck, sought fresh air and light on deck. Finding her way to the forward companionway she groped her way to the starboard side where she made a little bright patch against the coils of black hemp belayed and hung upon the pinrail.
Staring out over the bright waters of Spithead she touched the life quickening within her. Her heart was full to bursting with her misery. The horrors of her week-long journey rose again before her at a time when she had thought to be burying them in happiness. Shame for her man and for herself, shame for the unborn child and for the depths of degradation to which one human could subject another welled up within her. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Her eyes stared out unseeing at the ships lying to the tide. She was a small, broken piece of the price Britain paid for its naval puissance.
It was some time before old Blackmore noticed the lonely figure forward. He had relieved Keene of the deck and soon sent Drinkwater to turn the woman below again. Blackmore, trained in the merchant service, retained his civilian prejudice for refusing women leave to come on board. He sighed. In the merchant service a master gave his crew shore leave. If they wished to visit a brothel that was their affair, but they could be relied upon to return to their ship. The navy's fear of desertion prevented any liberty and resulted in the drunken orgy at present in progress between decks. If the old sailing master could do nothing to alter the crazy logic of Admiralty he was damned if he would have the upper deck marred by the presence of a whore.
Drinkwater approached the girl. In her preoccupation she did not hear him. He coughed and she turned, only to blench at his uniform. She drew back against the coils of hemp imagining Morris's threat of a flogging about to be carried out.
'Excuse me ma'am,' began Drinkwater, unsure of himself. The woman was obviously distressed. 'The Master's compliments and would you please to go below…'
She looked at him uncomprehending.
'Please ma'am,' the midshipman pleaded, 'None of you, er, ladies are permitted above decks.' She began to perceive his meaning and his embarrassment. Her courage rallied. Here was one she could answer back.
'D'you think I'm one of them 'arlots?' she asked indignantly. Drinkwater stepped back and the girl gained more spirit from his discomfiture.
'I'm a proper wife, Mrs Sharples to the likes o'you, and I journeyed a week to see my 'usband Tom…' she hesitated and Drinkwater tried to placate her.
'Then, please ma'am, will ye go to Sharples and bide with him.'
She rose in scorn. 'Aye willingly, Mister Officer, if ye'd return him to me but he's out there…' she waved over the side, 'off in a boat, an' me with child and a week on the road only to find 'im beat and, and…' here she could not bring herself to say more and her courage failed her. She stepped forward and fainted into the arms of a confused Drinkwater. Then in an intuitive flash he realised she knew of her husband's humiliation.
He called aft for Appleby and the surgeon puffed up along the gangway. A glance took in the lady's condition and her nervous state. Appleby chafed her wrists and sent Drinkwater off for sal volatile from his chest. A few minutes later the girl recovered consciousness. Blackmore had come up and demanded an explanation. Having made an enquiry on passing through the gun-deck en route to the surgeon's chest, Drinkwater was able to tell the master that Sharples had gone off in the launch with Morris. 'But the man's not in the launch crew.'
'I know, Mr Blackmore,' replied Drinkwater.
'Did Morris single him out?'
'It appears so, sir.' Drinkwater shrugged and bit his lip.
'D'ye have any idea why?' asked Blackmore, shrewdly noticing the midshipman's face shadowed by doubtful knowledge. Drinkwater hesitated. It was more eloquent than words.
'Come on now, young shaver, if ye know, let's have it out.'
The midshipman swallowed hard. He looked at the distressed girl, golden curls fell about a comely face and she looked like a damsel in distress. Drinkwater burnt his boats.
'Morris has been buggering her husband,' he said in a low voice.
'And Sharples?' enquired Blackmore.
'He was forced, sir…'
Blackmore gave Drinkwater another hard look. He did not have to ask more. Long experience had taught him what had occurred. Morris would have bullied Drinkwater, may even have offered him physical violence or worse. The old man was filled with a loathing for this navy that ran on brutality.
'Let the lady get some air,' said Blackmore abruptly and turned aft for the quarterdeck.
When the launch returned Sharples was reunited with his wife. He had endured three hours of abuse and ridicule from Morris and his boat's crew.
Having delivered the Admiral's orders Morris made his way to the cockpit.
Drinkwater had also been relieved and going below he met Tregembo. The Cornishman was grinning. He held in his hand two ash sticks, each three feet long, with a guard of rattan work obviously untwisted from one of the blacksmith's withy chisels. 'Here, zur,' said Tregembo. Drinkwater took the sticks.
Drinkwater looked at Tregembo. He had better let the man know what
had happened on the upper deck before it became known below.
'The Master knows Morris has been buggering Sharples, Tregembo. You'd better watch Threddle…'
A cloud crossed the Cornishman's face and then he brightened again. The midshipman was not such a disappointment after all.
'Ye'll thrash him easy, zur. Good luck…' Drinkwater continued below. He had uttered words that could hang a man, words that he would never have dared to utter at home. And now he felt ice cold, apprehensive but determined…
In the cockpit Morris and the other midshipmen were eating, mugs of ale at their places. The messman produced a plate for Drinkwater. He waved it aside, went to his place and, standing, cleared his throat.
'H'hmm.' Nobody took any notice. The blood pounded in his throat and adrenaline poured into his blood stream. But still he was cool. 'Mr Morris!' he shouted. He had their attention now.
'Mr Morris. This morning you threatened me and struck me…' A master's mate put his head in through the canvas door. The tableau was lit by two lanterns even at 2 p.m. here in the orlop. The air crackled with tension. Two master's mates were now looking on.
Morris rose slowly to his feet. Drinkwater did not see the apprehension turning to fear in his eyes. He was too busy remaining cool.
'You struck me, sir,' he repeated. He threw a single stick on the table, it knocked over a mug of ale and in the ensuing pause the air was filled with the gurgle of beer running on to the deck.
'Perhaps, gentlemen, you would be kind enough after dinner to give me room to thrash Mr Morris at single stick. Now, steward, my dinner if you please…'
He sat down grateful that his own mug remained full. The meal was completed in total silence. The two master's mates disappeared.
It was afterwards agreed that Drinkwater had been extremely sporting in allowing notice of the forthcoming match to be circulated. It was quite a crowd that eagerly cleared a space for the protagonists while Drinkwater removed his coat and stock. Both combatants were in their shirt-sleeves and Drinkwater took up his stick and tested it for balance. He had chosen the weapon for its familiarity. In Barnet it had been a favourite with the lads, imitating the gentleman's short sword, it combined the finesse of that weapon with some of the blunt brutality of the quarterstaff. The carpenter's mate had done well.
Drinkwater watched Beale push the last sea-chest back against the ship's side.
'Mr Beale, will 'ee stand second to me?'
'With pleasure, Mr Drinkwater,' said the other youngster shooting a sidelong glance at Morris.
The latter looked desperately around him. At last one of the master's mates stood second to Morris rather than spoil the match.
As duelling was illegal on board ship Drinkwater's choice of weapons was fortuitously apt. Although he had been guided by his own proficiency with the weapon and chose the single stick in ignorance, any action by the lieutenants could be circumvented by an explanation that it was a sporting occasion. To this end the seconds conferred and decided to send the messman in search of Wheeler who, despite his commissioned status, could be relied upon for his vanity in presiding over such a match.
It was a tiny space in which they had to fight, about five feet four inches high and some fifteen feet by ten in area. The spectators backed up against the ship's side further restricted it. Someone offered odds and the babble of excited voices attracted more attention. Into this babel, calling for order strode the resplendent figure of Lieutenant Wheeler. His arrival was accompanied by a rending of canvas as the forward screen was demolished, thus augmenting the spectators by some two score. Wheeler looked about him.
'Damn my eyes, what an evil coven have we here. For the love of God bring more lanterns, a fencing master has to see, d'ye hear…'
The protagonists faced each other and Wheeler issued his instructions.
'Now gentlemen, the rules of foil, hits with the point, on the trunk only. You are unmasked, which I do not like, but as this is only a sporting match,' this with a heavy emphasis, 'I should not have to caution you.' He paused.
'En garde!'
'Êtes vous prêts?'
'Aye,' 'Aye,' Wheeler grimaced at the common response.
'Allez.'
Drinkwater's legs were bent ready for the lunge and his left hand was on his hip as there was no room for it in equipoise. Morris had adopted a similar position. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
Drinkwater beat Morris's stick; it gave. He beat again and lunged. The point hit Morris on the breastbone but he side swiped and would have hit Drinkwater's head but the latter parried on the lunge and recovered.
'Halte!' yelled Wheeler, then, 'En garde.'
This time Drinkwater extended, drew Morris's stick and disengaged, pressing the lunge. His point, blunt though it was, scraped and bruised Morris's upper arm, ripping his shirt away.
'Halte!' cried Wheeler but as Drinkwater returned to guard Morris, with a yell of rage, cut at his opponent's flank. The blow stung Drinkwater's sword arm and bruised his ribs so that tears started in his eyes and his arm dropped. But it was only for a second. He lost his temper and jabbed forward. Wheeler was yelling for them to stop but Drinkwater's stick drove savagely into Morris's stomach muscles. Morris stumbled and bent forward. Drinkwater recovered and raised his smarting arm. He beat the length of his stick down upon Morris's back.
'Halte! Halte!' screamed Wheeler jumping up and down with the excitement.
'Leave 'em! Leave 'em!' yelled the cheering onlookers.
Drinkwater hit Morris again as he went down. His arm was filled now with the pent-up venom in his soul. He struck Morris for himself, for Sharples and for Kate Sharples until someone pinioned him from behind. Morris lay prone. Someone passed a bucket along. A woman shouted it was full of lady's pee' and the crowd roared its approval as it was emptied over Morris's back.
Lieutenant Devaux, disturbed from the quiet consumption of a third bottle of looted Madeira by the yelling and stamping, elbowed his way through the crowd. He was blear-eyed and dishevelled. He regarded the scene with a jaundiced eye.
'Our bloody little fire eater, eh?'
Silence fell. Punters melted away into the darkness. 'Send this rabble forward. Wheeler! What in God's name are you doing here? Who's in charge? Wheeler, what's the meaning of all this tomfoolery?'
But as Wheeler began to explain an astonished Lieutenant Price came in. Looking at the tableau in ill-disguised regret that he had missed the rout, he addressed the first lieutenant.
'Captain's compliments, Mr Devaux, and will you attend him in the cabin immediately'
For answer Devaux swore horribly and left the company. A few moments later, hair clubbed, hatted and coated he made his way aft.
'Orders to sail, I believe,' Price said quietly to Wheeler by way of explanation.
Drinkwater overheard. He drew a deep, deep breath and turned his back on the shakily standing Morris. They could sail to hell and back now, thought Nathaniel, for he no longer felt oppressed by his boyhood.
Chapter Eight
The Capture of the Algonquin
July — August 1780
Cyclops was under easy canvas standing southward. At noon the ship was hove to and soundings tried for the Labadie Bank. As the yards swung round there was a sudden cry from the masthead: 'Sail Ho!'
Devaux ordered Drinkwater up with a glass. When he returned Hope was on deck.
'Schooner, sir,' the midshipman reported.
'Raked masts?'
'Aye, sir.'
'Yankee,' snapped Hope. 'Belay that nonsense, Mr Blackmore. Mr Devaux all sail, steer south.'
Blackmore looked crestfallen, holding the lead and examining the arming, but around him the ship burst into activity. The topgallant sails were cast loose in their slack buntlines and the yards hoisted. Within minutes, braced round to catch the wind, the canvas tautened. Cyclops drove forward.
'Royals, sir?' queried Devaux as he and Hope gauged the wind strength.
'Royals, sir,' assen
ted the captain. 'Royal halliards… hoist away!'
The light yards were set flying, sent aloft at the run to the bare poles above the straining topgallants. As the frigate spread her kites Hope walked forward and carefully ascended the foremast. Behind him Devaux, already querying the wisdom of setting royals in the prevailing breeze, expressed his opinion of captains who could not trust their officers to make reports. Ten minutes later the captain descended. Approaching the knot of officers on the quarterdeck he said, 'She's Yankee all right. Small, light and stuffed full of men. Luckily for us she's to loo'ard and the wind's inclined to freshen.'
'Should catch him then,' said Devaux, looking pointedly aloft.
'Aye,' ruminated Blackmore, still peeved at the captain's disregard for his navigational technicalities, 'but if he once gets to windward he'll stand closer than us…'
'Quite!' snapped Hope, 'and now Mr Devaux we will clear for action.'
Since sailing from Spithead on a cruise against enemy privateers and commerce raiders, the mood in Cyclops's cockpit had changed. The affair of Morris and Drinkwater had been the ship's own cause celebre since many, particularly on the lower deck, knew the background to the quarrel. The immediate consequences for the protagonists had been a mastheading each after which Morris lost all credibility in the mess and, aware of the thinness of the ice upon which he now skated, assumed an attitude of almost total self-effacement. The change in his attitude was quite incredible and while he nursed a venomous hatred for Drinkwater he was himself now haunted by the noose.
Drinkwater, on the other hand, had become overnight a popular hero. His own stature increased with the hands and his self-confidence grew daily. Wheeler had made of him a sort of friend and had undertaken to school him in the smallsword. Drinkwater rapidly became adept at fencing and was once or twice invited to dine in the gunroom. Tregembo and Sharples attached themselves firmly to the midshipman and formed a sort of bodyguard.
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.
An Eye of the Fleet nd-1 Page 8