The American officer rolled breathless on the deck. He attempted to rise and summon the assistance of the watch but Drinkwater, recovering from his butting charge, had whipped a belaying pin from the rail. The hardwood cracked on the man's head and laid him unconscious on his own deck.
Drinkwater stood panting with effort. The noise of blood and energy roared in his ears. It was impossible that the Algonquin's crew had not been awakened by the din. Around him the British, several armed by Hagan's marines gathered like black shadows As one man they rolled forward. Too late the Americans on deck realised something was amiss. They went down howling and fighting. One attempted to wake those below. But resistance was useless. Men threatened with imprisonment in a French hulk or the benches of a galley are desperate. Five Americans perished through drowning, hurled over Algonquin's side. Several were concussed into insanity. Eight were killed by their own edged weapons, weapons intended to intimidate unarmed merchantmen. The remainder were penned into the hold so lately reserved for their victims.
In ten minutes the ship was retaken.
Half an hour later she was put about, the sheets eased and, on a broad reach, steadied on course for England.
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth
August 1780
Drinkwater leaned over the chart. Beside him a quartermaster named Stewart was pointing out the navigational dangers. Stewart had served as mate of a merchant ship and Drinkwater was thankful for his advice.
'I think Falmouth, Mr Drinkwater,' the man said. 'You'll find the distance less and you'll not need to fear the Eddystone. The lighthouse is fine but the light feeble. Nay I'd say the twin cressets of the Lizard will be a better mark.'
Drinkwater heeded Stewart. The former mate was a tough and experienced mariner which the incongruous paradoxes of human social order placed under his orders.
'Very well. Falmouth it is. But I fear them retaking the ship. We have at least twenty leagues to run before sighting the Lizard…'
'I do not think they will attempt it. Hagan's guard won't let them trick us again. The boys'll spit them with their baynits before asking any questions. Just you refuse them all requests and favours, Mr Drinkwater.'
Rolling the charts up they went on deck.
Algonquin raced along, her canvas straining under the force of the wind. On either side of her the white water hissed urgently as her keel tramped down the waters of the Channel underfoot.
The breeze was fresh but steady, allowing them to keep sail on the schooner and reel off a steady seven knots. At eight bells the next morning the sun caught the twin white towers of the Lizard and at noon Algonquin ran into Falmouth Harbour, under the guns of St Mawes and Pendennis castles. At her peak she flew British over American colours. Drinkwater brought her to an anchor under the guns of a frigate lying in Carrick Roads.
Drinkwater was reluctant to leave Algonquin and report to the frigate, but the warship sent her own boat. Amidst a crowd of unfamiliar faces he was rowed across to her. She proved to be the Galatea.
Reporting to the third lieutenant he was informed the Captain was in lodgings ashore but that the first lieutenant would receive his report.
Drinkwater was conducted aft to where a tall, thin officer was bent almost double under the deck beams. He was coughing violently.
'Beg pardon, sir, this is Midshipman Drinkwater of the Cyclops. Prizemaster of the schooner yonder…' Drinkwater was suddenly a boy again, the responsibility of command lifted from him in the presence of this intimidating stranger. He felt very tired, tired and dirty.
The tall man looked at him and smiled. Then in an unmistakably Northumbrian accent he said, 'Watched you anchor mister. Well done. You'll have prisoners, no doubt?'
'Aye, sir, about twenty.'
The lieutenant frowned. 'About?' He fell to coughing again.
'I haven't allowed them on deck, sir. I'm not sure how many were killed last night.'
The officer's frown deepened. 'You say you're from Cyclops, lad?'
'Aye, sir, that's correct.'
'She's off Ireland or thereaboots, so how were you fighting last night?'
Drinkwater explained how the Americans had retaken the ship, how Lieutenant Price had been killed and briefly related the prize crew's desperate attempt to retrieve the situation. The first lieutenant's frown was replaced by a wry grin.
'You'll be wantin' to be rid of such troublesome fellars then.'
'Yes, sir.'
'I'll send some men and our longboat over. You'll have to take them to Pendennis. After that report to Captain Edgecumbe at the Crown.' The tall man indicated first the squat tower of Pendennis on its headland above the harbour and then the huddle of houses and cottages that constituted the market town of Falmouth. He broke into another fit of coughing.
Thank you, sir.'
'My pleasure, lad,' said the tall man moving away.
'Beg pardon, sir?' The man turned, a bloody handkerchief to his mouth.
'May I ask your name?'
'Collingwood,' coughed the tall lieutenant.
Lieutenant Wilfred Collingwood was as good as his word. Half an hour later Galatea's longboat was alongside and a file of marines came aboard. Hagan had done his best to smarten the crew up but they did not compare with Galatea's men.
The Americans were herded into the boat. Drinkwater ordered Algonquin's boat into the water and was rowed ashore with Stewart. On the stone pier of Falmouth's inner harbour the marines were lining the American prisoners up. Josiah King was paraded scowling at the head of his men and the scarlet coats were lined along either side of the downcast little column. Drinkwater, his trousers still damp and smelling of bilge, swaggered at their head while Stewart and six seamen followed with cutlasses.
Hagan, also stinking of bilge, marched beside Drinkwater. The column moved off. It was market day and Falmouth was crowded. The people cheered the little procession as it tramped through the narrow streets. Drinkwater was conscious of the eyes of girls and women, and found the sensation thus produced arousing. But such is the vanity of humanity that Sergeant Hagan threw out his chest and received the same glances with the same assurance that they were for him. Whereas in truth they were intended for the handsome, sulking American commander who, in the romantic hour of his defeat appealed to the perverse preference of the women.
Josiah King burned with a furious rage that seemed to roar in his skull like a fire. He burned with shame at losing his ship a second time. He burned with impotent anger that fate had wrested the laurels of victory from him, Josiah King of Newport, Rhode Island, and conferred them on the skinny young midshipman whose wet and smelly ducks stuck to his legs with every swaggering stride he took. He burned too with the knowledge that he had been outwitted at the very moment he had been congratulating himself on his forethought. That was perhaps the bitterest, most private, part of the affair. Behind him his men trooped disconsolately as the column moved out of the town and began to climb the headland.
The road passed the end of the hornworks ascending through low undergrowth. It was hot and the sun beat down upon them. Suddenly the ramparts rose on their left and they swung over the fosse, under the Italianate guard-house inside which the huge expanse of the castle enclosure revealed itself.
The guard had called the sergeant and the sergeant called his captain. The captain despatched an ensign to attend to the matter and continued his post-prandial doze. The ensign was insufferably pompous, having discovered that the escort was commanded by a none too clean midshipman. His condescending manner annoyed the exhausted Drinkwater who was compelled to endure the tedium of the unfamiliar and bewildering paperwork without which even the business of war could not be expedited. Each individual American had to be identified and signed for both by the ensign and the midshipman. All the while the sun beat down and Drinkwater felt the fatigue of a sleepless night merge with the euphoric relief from responsibility. At last the disdainful officer was satisfied.
The marines had fallen in again and
the little party began to descend to the town.
With Stewart, Drinkwater repaired to the Crown Inn.
Captain Edgecumbe of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Galatea was an officer of the old school. When a ragamuffin midshipman appeared before him in filthy ducks the Captain was rightly wrathful. When that same scruffy midshipman attempted to report the arrival of the captured privateer Algonquin the captain refused to be side-tracked by incidentals. He also disliked interruptions.
The diatribe to which he subjected Drinkwater was as lengthy as it was unnecessary. In the end the midshipman stood silent, discovering, after some minutes had elapsed, that he was not even listening. Outside the hot sun shone and he had an odd longing to be doing nothing but lounging in that sunshine and perhaps have his arm about the waist of one of those pretty girls he had seen earlier. The sweet scent of Cornwall wafted in through the open window distracting his senses from the path of duty. Only when the Captain ceased his tirade did the sudden silence break into his reverie and drag his conscious mind back to the inn room. He looked at the Captain.
Sitting in his shirt-sleeves Edgecumbe looked what he was, a dissipated and incompetent officer, living out of his ship and indulging his sexual appetites with local ladies. Drinkwater felt a sudden surge of contempt for him.
He touched his forehead. 'Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir.' He turned and marched smartly from the room.
Downstairs he found Stewart in the taproom. He was chaffing with a red-cheeked girl. Drinkwater noticed with a flutter in his stomach the girl had bright eyes and apple breasts.
Stewart, slightly abashed, bought the midshipman a pot of beer.
'Be 'e yer Cap'n?' the girl asked Stewart, giggling incredulously and setting the tankard down in front of Drinkwater.
The quartermaster nodded flushing a little.
Drinkwater was confused by the unaccustomed proximity of the girl, but he felt Stewart's deference to his apparent importance as a spur to his manhood. She leaned over him boldly.
'Does y're honour need anything,' she enquired solicitously.
The heaving bosom no longer embarrassed him in his newfound confidence. He sucked greedily at the tankard, staring at the girl over its rim and enjoying her discomfiture as the beer warmed his belly. He was, after all, prize-master of the Algonquin, who had strutted through Falmouth under the admiring glances of scores of women…
He finished the beer. 'To tell the truth ma'am, I have not the means to purchase more than a pot or two of beer…'
The girl plumped herself on the bench next to Stewart. She knew the quartermaster had a guinea or half sovereign about him, for she had seen the glint of gold in his hand. Stewart's experience ensured he never ventured ashore without the price of a little dalliance or a good bottle about his person. The girl smiled at Drinkwater. It was a pity, she thought, he looked a nice young man, handsome in a pale sort of way. She felt Stewart's arm encircle her. Ah, well a girl had to live…
'Yer honour'll have matters of great importance to deal with,' she said pointedly. She began to nestle up to Stewart who was staring at him. Drinkwater was aware of the pressure of Stewart's arm on a large breast. The white flesh swelled up, threatening to eject itself from the ineffectively grubby confines of the girl's bodice.
Drinkwater smiled lightheartedly. Rising, he tossed a few coppers on to the table.
'Be on board by sunset, Mr Stewart.'
On his return to Algonquin Drinkwater found the schooner being washed down. Upon the deck lay a bundle. It was a dead man. The other wounded were up and about, Grattan had had his arm splinted by the surgeon of Galatea. In the absence of the midshipman Collingwood had been aboard the schooner and arranged for Cyclops's injured to attend Galatea for medical attention. He had also ordered the remainder into cleaning their prize.
Collingwood took an interest in the Algonquin for he was shortly to be posted to the West Indies where such vessels abounded. Besides he had liked the look of the young midshipman, who had done well by all accounts. A little discreet questioning among Algonquin's prize crew told how well. The lieutenant left a message that Drinkwater should report to him on his return aboard.
The quarterdeck of Galatea reminded Drinkwater of Cyclops and he experienced a pang of nostalgia for his own frigate. Collingwood took him to one side and questioned him.
'Did you see Captain Edgecumbe?'
'Yes, sir.' The lieutenant broke into a fit of coughing. 'What orders did he give you?' he asked at last.
'None, sir.'
'None?' queried the lieutenant, a mock frown creasing his forehead.
'Well, sir…' Drinkwater faltered. What did one say to a first lieutenant whose captain had filled you with contempt?
'He told me to change my uniform, sir, and to… and to…'
'To report to the Flag Officer, Plymouth, I don't doubt. Ain't that so, lad?'
Drinkwater looked at Collingwood and through his fatigue the light slowly dawned on him.
'Oh! Yes… yes, sir, that's correct.' He paused.
'Very well. I'd get under way tomorrow if I were you.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' The midshipman knuckled his forehead and turned away.
'Oh, and Mr Drinkwater!'
'Sir?'
'You cannot bury that man in the harbour. My carpenter is making a coffin. I have taken the liberty of arranging a burial service later this afternoon. You will attend the church of St Charles the Martyr at four o'clock. Do you give thanks to the Lord for your deliverance…' The tall lieutenant turned away in another paroxysm of coughing.
Drinkwater slept briefly and at five bells was called to find his ducks cleaned and pressed. Hagan had spruced up his marines and the little party that solemnly marched to the parish church with their dismal burden carried with them a kind of rough dignity. The organisation of a church burial for one of their number was a touch that Drinkwater did not really appreciate at the time.
Called upon to squander their life's blood in the service of an ungrateful country, the British seaman was inured to being treated worse than a beast. When gestures such as that made by Wilfred Collingwood touched their hearts they became an emotional breed. While Edgecumbe pursued the libertine path of the insensitive autocrat, Collingwood and others were learning the true trade of leadership. No-one was to play upon the sailor's heart-strings as well as Horatio Nelson, but he was not the only one to learn.
The church was marvellously cool after the heat of the afternoon. The little congregation shuffled awkwardly, sensing the incongruity of the occasion. Afterwards under the yew trees, the heat wrapped itself around the party again. Three men wept as the plain coffin was laid to rest, worn out with exertion and over-strung nerves.
The brief burial over, the seamen and marines prepared to march into town. The priest, a thin shrivelled man who wore his hair to the shoulder in the old fashioned manner, came over to the midshipman.
'I would be honoured, sir, if you would take a dish of tea with me at the vicarage yonder.'
'Thank you, sir,' Drinkwater bowed.
The two men entered the house which contained something of the cool of the church. It reminded Drinkwater abruptly and painfully of his own home. A table was set for three. It seemed that the priest had some knowledge of the prize crew's exploits for he addressed Drinkwater in enthusiastic tones.
'I am but the interregnum here, but I am sure that the incumbent would wish me to welcome the opportunity of entertaining a naval hero in his home…'
He motioned Drinkwater to a chair.
'You are most kind, sir,' Drinkwater replied, 'but I do not think my actions were those of an hero…'
'Come, come…'
'No, sir. I fear the threat of a French prison revived our spirits…' He rose as a woman came in bearing a tea kettle.
'Ahh, my dear, the tea…' The old man bobbed up and down wringing his hands.
'Mr Drinkwater, I'd like to present my daughter Elizabeth. Elizabeth, my dear, this is Mr Drinkwater… I fear I do not k
now the gentleman's Christian name though it would be an honour to do so…' He made little introductory gestures with his hands, opening and closing them like an inexpertly-managed glove puppet.
'Nathaniel, sir,' volunteered Drinkwater. The woman turned and Drinkwater looked into the eyes of a striking girl of about his own age. He took her hand and managed a clumsy little bow as he flushed with surprise and discomfiture. Her fingers were cool like the church. He mumbled:
'Y'r servant ma'am.'
'Honoured, sir.' Her voice was low and clear.
The trio sat. Drinkwater felt immediately oppressed by the quality of the crockery. The delicacy of the china after months of shipboard life made him feel clumsy.
The appearance of a plate of bread and cucumber, however, soon dispelled his misgivings.
'Nathaniel, eh,' muttered the old man. 'Well, well… "a gift of God"', he chuckled softly to himself, '…most appropriate… really most appropriate…'
Drinkwater felt a sudden surge of pure joy. The little parlour bright with chintzes and painted porcelain reminded him poignantly of home. There was even the air of threadbare gentility, of a pride that sometimes served as a substitute for more tangible sustenance.
As she poured the tea Drinkwater looked at the girl. He could see now that she was indeed his own age, though her old fashioned dress had conveyed an initial impression of greater maturity. She bit her lower lip as she concentrated on pouring the tea, revealing a row of even and near perfect teeth. Her dark hair was drawn back behind her head in an unpretentious tress and it combined with her eyes, eyes of a deep and understanding brown, to give her face the inescapable impression of sadness.
So struck was he with this melancholy that when she looked up to pass him his cup he held her gaze. She smiled and then he was surprised at the sudden vivacity in her face, a liveliness free of any reproach that his directness deserved. He felt contentment change into happiness absent from his life for many months. He felt a keen desire to please this girl, not out of mere gratuitous bravado, but because she had about her the soothing aura of calm and tranquillity. In the turmoil of his recent life he felt a powerful longing for spiritual peace.
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