Tregembo instantly grasped the idea. They both leapt for the forestay. The anchor was secured to the starboard fore channels by chain. The chains terminated in pear links through which many turns of hemp lashing were passed, securing the anchor to the ship.
Snatching out his knife Tregembo attacked the stock lashing whilst Drinkwater went for that at the crown.
The shouting, screaming mass of struggling men were only feet away from them yet, because La Creole had come aboard on Cyclops's port quarter, the fo'c's'le was a comparative haven. Then someone in the privateer's tops opened fire with a musket. The ball struck the anchor fluke and whined away in ricochet. Sweat rolled off the two men and Drinkwater began to curse his fine idea, thinking the seizing would never part. His head throbbed with the din of battle and the bruise that Morris had given him. Another ball smacked into the deck between his feet. His back felt immensely huge, a target the marksman could not fail to hit at the next shot.
Tregembo grunted, his seizing parted and the sudden jerk snapped the remaining strands of Drinkwater's. The anchor dropped with a splash.
'I hope to God the cable runs…'
It did, enough at least to permit the anchor to reach the bottom where it bit, broke loose and bit again, snubbing the two ships round head to the current that runs inexorably north east up the coast of Florida and Carolina. The current pulled each hull, but Cyclops held, her anchor bringing her up against the force of it. Drinkwater moved aft. He was the first to detect a grinding between the ships that told where La Creole slowly disengaged herself from her foe.
'She's off lads, we've got 'em!' One head turned, then another, then all at once the British rallied, seeing over their heads the movement in the enemy's ship.
They took up the cry and with renewed vigour carried on the work of stabbing and cutting their adversaries. Looking over their shoulders the Franco-Americans began to realise what was going on. The militia were the first to break, running and scrambling over friend and foe alike.
La Creole scraped slowly aft, catching frequently and only tearing herself finally clear of Cyclops after a minute or two. Sufficient time elapsed for most of her men to return to her, for the exhausted British let them go. The final scenes of the action would have been comic if they had not occurred in such grim circumstances with the dead and dying of three nations scattered about the bloody deck.
Several men leapt overboard and swam to where their comrades were lowering ropes over the side. One of these was the French commander who gesticulated fiercely from the dramatic eminence of the frigate's rail before plunging overboard and swimming strongly for his own ship.
On Cyclops's gangway a negro was on his knees, rolling his eyes, his hands clasped in an unmistakable gesture of submission. Seeing Drinkwater almost alone in the forepart of the ship the negro flung himself down at his feet. Behind him Devaux seemed bent on running him through, a Devaux with blood lust in his eyes…
'No, no massa, Ah do surrenda sah! Jus' like that Gen'ral Burgoyne, sah, Ah do surrenda!' It was Wheeler who eventually overcame the first lieutenant and brought him to his senses by telling him the captain wanted him aft. The negro, thankfully ignored, attached himself to Drinkwater.
The two ships were now two cables apart. Neither of them was in a fit condition to re-engage immediately.
'That,' said Captain Hope to Mr Blackmore as they emerged from the defensive hedge made for them by Wheeler and his marines, 'That was a damned close thing!'
The sailing master nodded with unspoken relief. Hope barked a short, nervous laugh.
'The devil'll have to wait a little longer for us, eh Blackmore?'
La Creole drifted astern.
'Cut that cable, mister,' ordered Hope when Devaux eventually reached him, 'and find out who let the anchor go.'
'Might I suggest we weigh it, sir…'
'Cut it, dammit, I want to re-engage before he spreads the news of our arrival on the coast.'
Devaux shrugged and turned forward.
Hope turned to the sailing master. 'We're in soundings then.'
'Aye, sir,' said the old man recollecting himself.
'Make sail, we'll finish that rebel first.'
But La Creole was already shaking out her canvas. She was to leeward and soon under way. Fifteen minutes later Cyclops was before the wind, two and three-quarter miles astern of the privateer.
That was still the position when darkness set in.
Below, in the cockpit Drinkwater sat having his shoes polished by the negro. He was unable to rid himself of the encumbrance and in the aftermath of action no one seemed to bother about the addition to Cyclops's complement.
'What's your name?' he asked fascinated by the ebony features of the man.
'Mah name, sah, is Ach'lles and Ah am your serbant…'
'My servant?' said Drinkwater astonished.
'Yes sah! You sabe ma life. Ach'lles your best fre'nd.'
Chapter Fourteen
The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men…
March 1781
Daylight revealed Cyclops alone within the circle of her visible horizon. La Creole had given her the slip and Captain Hope was furious that her arrival on the coast would now be broadcast. He now had no alternative but to execute his orders as speedily as possible.
He waited impatiently for noon and Blackmore's meridian altitude. When the master had made his calculations he brought the answer to Hope. 'Our latitude is thirty-four degrees twelve minutes north, sir. That is,' he glanced at his slate, That is forty-three miles to the north of our landfall although we shall have to weather Frying Pan shoals.'
Hope nodded. 'Very well, make the necessary arrangements and be kind enough to attend me with the first lieutenant… and, er, Mr Blackmore, have young Drinkwater bring your charts down here.'
When the master reappeared with Devaux, Hope cordially invited them to sit. Drinkwater spread the charts out on the table between them.
'Ah hhmmm, Mr Drinkwater,' began Hope. 'The first lieutenant has informed me that it was you that let go the sheet anchor during the late action with La Creole?'
'Er, yes, sir. I was assisted by Tregembo, fore-topman, but I take full responsibility for the loss of the anchor…'
'Quite so, quite so…'
'If you'll permit me to observe, sir,' broke in Devaux, 'it may well have saved the ship.'
Hope looked up sharply. There was the smallest hint of reproach in Devaux's voice. But Hope had not the energy for anger, his glance caught Blackmore's. Barely perceptibly the old master shrugged his shoulders. Hope smiled to himself. Old men saw things differently…
'Quite so, Mr Devaux. Mr Drinkwater I wish to congratulate you on your initiative. It is a quality which you appear to possess in abundance. I shall do what I can for you and if I fail I am sure Mr Devaux will prompt me… in the meantime I would be delighted if you and Mr Cranston together with Lieutenant Wheeler, Mr Devaux and yourself, Master, would join me at dinner. Who will have the watch, Mr Devaux?'
'Lieutenant Skelton, sir.'
'Very well, we had better have Keene and of course no dinner aboard Cyclops would be complete without an after-dinner speaker in the shape of the surgeon. Please see to it… Now Mr Drinkwater, the charts…'
The men bent over the table, their bodies moving automatically to the motion of the frigate.
'Our destination,' began the captain, 'is the mouth of the Galuda River here, in Long Bay. As you observe there is a bar but within the river mouth there is a small fort: Fort Frederic. Our task is to enter the river, pass to the garrison such stores and munitions as they require and to hand a certain package to some sort of agent. The details of this are known to Mr Devaux and need not concern us here…' Hope paused and wiped his forehead. He resumed. 'When we close the coast we will send boats in ahead to sound the channel into the anchorage.'
Devaux and Blackmore nodded.
'To be on the safe side we will clear for action as we enter the river and put a spring on the cable w
hen we anchor. I do not intend being here a moment longer than is absolutely necessary for I fear our late adversary will come looking for us with reinforcements.' Hope tapped the chart with the dividers.
'Any questions, gentlemen?'
Devaux cleared his throat. 'If I am not mistaken, sir, you are as apprehensive of this operation as I am…?' Hope said nothing, merely stared at the lieutenant.
'I mislike the whole thing, sir. It has a smell about it, I…'
'Mr Devaux,' bristled Hope, 'it is not part of your duties to question orders, I imagine their Lordships know their business.' Hope spoke with a conviction he was far from feeling, his own misgivings lending his voice an asperity that was over-severe.
But Devaux knew nothing of the circumstances of Hope's reception of his orders. To him Hope was no longer the man who had towed the Santa Teresa off the San Lucar shoal. The tedious weeks of patrol had wearied him, the worry over prize-money had worn him and he had learned from Wheeler how Hope and Blackmore had taken an abject refuge behind a steel hedge of bayonets in the recent fight. Devaux's reaction was jaundiced for he, too, had been subject to the same strains for similar reasons. But he saw Hope now as a timid old man, blindly obeying the orders dished up by a hated Tory cabal… he mastered his impatience with difficulty; events had conspired against him…
'With respect, sir, why send us to this remote spot to cripple the rebel economy with counterfeit bills?' Blackmore looked up with sudden interest and Drinkwater had the sense to remain absolutely motionless. Hope opened his mouth to protest but Devaux ploughed on. 'Why not get them through New York where Clinton's agents must have a clearing house? Or Virginny where the rebel wealth really comes from? Even New England is better than the Carolinas…'
'Mr Devaux! I must remind you that what I told you was in confidence… but since you lack the self control I had thought to be an attribute of your class I will explain, as much for your benefit as for these other gentlemen here… And I must ask you to treat the matter with confidence… The Carolinas are in Lord Cornwallis's hands, Mr Devaux. I assume the notes are for him. He is, I believe, extending operations under Major Ferguson into the back country where, I presume, the money is required. That is all gentlemen…'
Drinkwater left the captain with a profound sense of disquiet. He knew his presence had been an embarrassment to Captain Hope who might have dealt more sharply with the first lieutenant had the midshipman not been there. But there was more than the rift between captain and first lieutenant to set his mind working. The negro Achilles had been telling odd stories in the cockpit. Stories that did not tally with Hope's pat summary of the military situation in the Carolinas.
After some thought Drinkwater sought out Wheeler and consulted him. It was a breach of the captain's confidence in him but, under the circumstances that appeared to prevail ashore, he felt confident in so doing.
'Well, young shaver, we'd better go and have a word with your friend… what d'ye say he is… your servant?'
'He claims the right. Says I saved his life…'
'Get him to come up to the gunroom…'
They found Achilles to be an intelligent man who had been a plantation slave. When the British Military authorities offered freedom to any negroes who took up arms against the rebels, Achilles had forthwith escaped and promptly obtained his release from bondage. Soon obtaining a post as officer's servant to a lieutenant in the 23rd Foot he had been separated from his master at the battle of Camden and, by an evil fate, captured by the son of his former owner who was then a captain in the militia battalion that later embarked in La Creole.
His unique position, ready wit and intelligent powers of observation had made him a favourite with the officers of the 23rd and made him privy to many of their conversations. This had given him a reasonably accurate idea of the real military state of South Carolina. Wheeler set about extracting as much information as possible. He had little trouble since Achilles had a great love of the splendid scarlet soldiers and enjoyed their attention and amusement, contrasting their indolent disinterest with his former owner's ferocity.
'Yes, sah, dis war is no good, sah. Dere is not enuff ob de reg'lar sojers in de Carolinas, sah. Dat Major Ferguson, he dam' fine sojer, sah, but dey Tory milisha all dam' trash an' no more join afta Maj' Ferguson get kill up on dat ole King's Mount'n.'
Wheeler whistled. So the brilliant Patrick Ferguson was dead. The best shot in the British Army who had invented a breech loading rifle, who fenced with his left hand when he lost the use of his right at the Brandy wine, had been killed. The negro rolled his eyes dolorously.
'What about Lord Comwallis then, Achilles?'
'He dam' fine sojer too, sah! He lick dat Yankee rebel Gates and whip him proper at Camden. Gates he ride sixty mile after de battle, yeees sah! But poor Ach'lles, sah, Ah get the wrong side o' sum trees an' Ah run smack inta mah old boss's son who is mighty mad, cos he'm running from dey redcoats…'
'Yes, yes, Achilles, you've told us all that but what about his Lordship…?'
'He keep marchin',' replied the negro sitting bolt upright and making little swinging gestures with his arms, 'an' he keep fi'tin' but he nebber stop, so de officers ob the Twenty Third, they say he nebber win nuffin'.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, sah. Afta Gen'ral Gates gone back to dam' Congress wiv his lil' old tail hangin' 'tween his legs they send Gen'ral Greene down an' Gen'ral Greene he wun dam' fine sojer too, eben s'posin' he a rebel 'cos all de officers of de Twenty Third say so, sah!' Achilles was defensive, as if in admiring Greene he be thought to sympathise with the rebels. Then a puzzled look came over his face.
'Ah don' rightly unnerstand but dat Genr'l Greene he jus' don' know when he' beat. He fight, then he run, then he fight an' run agen… but he jus' don' get beat…' Achilles shook his head in incomprehension, his eyes rolling expressively.
'Ma Lord Cornwallis he send dat Lord Rawdon here an' dere, an' he send dat Co'nel Tarleton here and dere and dem two fine sojers dey charge up an' down the swamp lands tryin' for to catch de Swamp Fox an' de Gamecock…'
'The what?' queried Wheeler grinning in spite of himself.
'Dey de names of de rebel raiders, sah. Dam' clebber men. Dey say dey look jus' like trees all de time. Dey nearly get caught by Tarleton one, two time but always dey 'scape. Maybe dey nobody,' Achilles hinted darkly, '…Maybe dey voodoo…' Again Achilles shook his head and rolled his eyes.
'De war no good for us Loy'lists, sah. De reg'lar loy'lists fight like wild cats, sah. De reg'lar redcoat sojers dey fight better'n any dam' Yankees but dere jus' ain't enuff, sah. Dat's all, sah. Ach'lles tell you truth, sah. Ebbery word. I hear all de officers say dis, plenty times, sah, and de Twenty Third one dam' fine corp' of fine fuzileer, sah.'
Despite the seriousness of his news Wheeler could not stifle his laughter at the negro. At the end of his monologue Achilles had risen to his feet and come stiffly to attention to give due importance to the mention of His Majesty's Royal Welch Fusileers. Regrettably this zealous action had ended in sharp contact with the overhead deckbeams which were too low to accommodate the negro at full height. His swift reduction to a crouching position caused Wheeler and Drinkwater to burst out laughing.
'Very well, Achilles. And what about you… you may volunteer for service in the navy…'
'Don' know nuffin' 'bout no navy, sah,' said Achilles with feeling rubbing his bruised head… 'Achilles dam' fine servant, sah…'
'Well in that case I think you had better attend to me…'
'Ach'lles dis gennelman's servant, sah.' He indicated Drinkwater loyally.
Wheeler looked at Drinkwater. 'I don't know what the Hon. John will say to that, cully… I should get him appointed a messman…'
Wheeler took the news to Devaux who snorted with exasperation when he heard it.
'Young Nat was pretty perceptive to realise the significance of the nigger's intelligence.'
'Not really,' said the first lieutenant, still angry with Hope. He t
ossed off a tankard of flip and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. 'He was in the cabin when the Old Man re… oh, dammit, when I blew up and revealed all… still perhaps it's an ill wind. At least my suspicions are confirmed…'
'What'll we do?' Devaux thought for a bit then poured another tankard of flip.
'Listen, Wheeler, I'll raise it conversationally at dinner tonight. Do you back me up…'
It was inconceivable that the mission should not come up during the meal as the prime subject of conversation. The poor quality of the food served to remind them all that they had been pitched across the North Atlantic with insufficient provisions for a prolonged stay on the coast. Indeed it was Hope who broached the subject in general terms, explaining their presence off the Carolinas.
'I still don't see why they had to send a frigate to this desolate destination of ours. It doesn't make military, naval or any other kind of sense to me,' opined Devaux cautiously, seeking to channel the drift of talk. But Appleby sensing an opening for more expansive dialogue beat Hope to the breach. Drinkwater sat open mouthed at the pedagogic delivery of the surgeon.
'If you will permit me, gentlemen, to offer an opinion on your preoccupation…' Devaux sighed resignedly and Hope could scarcely suppress a smile. 'Your naivety does you great credit, Mr Devaux…' Devaux protested. 'Nay, hear me out, I beg. It seems to me, and with all due respect to Captain Hope, that this operation of ours is a political expedient not a military or naval exercise and therefore, if I may say so, not so readily comprehensible to you gallant gentlemen of the sword…'
Well, well, thought Hope. Either Appleby was psychic or omniscient.
'Imagine, messieurs, it was obviously conceived by a politician, who else has been passing Coercive Acts and playing at warfare with Parliamentary statutes? Why politicians! Milords North and Germaine hatched this one up! Germaine probably told North this was the very thing to do. Wouldn't cost much. Print a few million notes, ruin the rebel economy, bring Congress to its knees. No need for more troops, no credit to general officers or admirals but… and here's the beauty of it… brilliant stroke by Milordships!'
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