'Now Devaux! Now by God!'
The ports opened, there was a terrible squealing rumble as the starboard battery of twelve-pounders were run out. Then the concussion of the broadside overwhelmed them all, rocking the frigate. In the darkness of the gun-deck Keene and Devaux were leaping up and down with excitement and a fighting madness. They had double shotted the guns and topped off the charges with canister. The devastation thus inflicted upon La Creole almost destroyed her resistance at a blow. As the guns recoiled inboard Cyclops swung to starboard. Her impetus carried her alongside La Creole and a further broadside smashed into the ex-Indiaman's hull. A few bold souls aboard the American fired back and the engagement became general, though all the advantage lay with the British.
Drawing a little ahead Cyclops lost way. Her anchor was let go and her sails clewed up. Veering the cable Cyclops settled back and brought up on La Creole's larboard quarter.
For twenty dreadful minutes the British poured shot after shot into her. Aboard the American ship men died bravely. They got eight guns into action and inflicted some damage on their opponent but in the end, lying in his own gore, his ship and crew a shambles around him, the French commander ordered his ensign struck and an American officer complied.
The pale light of dawn revealed to Hope the limp bunting lying across the jagged remnants of what had once been a handsome carved taffrail and he ordered his cannon to cease fire…
Later in the morning Drinkwater accompanied his commander aboard the enemy's ship. Captain Hope did not consider her worth taking as a prize. His depleted crew were barely enough to guard the prisoners and work Cyclops. The rebel ship had been old when the Americans commissioned her and the damage that she suffered at the hands of Cyclops's gun crews had been frightful.
Drinkwater gaped at the desolation caused by the frigate's broadsides. The planking of her decks was ripped up, furrowed by ball and canister into jagged lines of splinters reminiscent of a field of petrified grass. Several beams sagged down into the spaces below and cannon were knocked clean off their carriages. Trunnions had been sheered and three had had their cascabels cut off as if with a knife. Scattered about all this destruction were petty items of personal gear. A man's stocking hat, a shoe, a crucifix and rosary beads, a clasp knife and a beautifully painted chest split to fragments…
Grimmer remains of what had once been men lay in unseemly attitudes and splashes of vivid colour. Dried blood was dark beside the ochreous pools of vomit, the stark white of exposed bone, the blue of bled flesh and the greens and browns of intestines. It was a vile sight and the hollow eyes of the surviving members of the crew regarded the British captain with a dull hatred as the author of their fate. But Hope, with the simple faith of the dedicated warrior, returned their gaze with scorn. For these men were nothing but legalised pirates, plundering for profit, destroying merchant ships for gain, and visiting upon innocent seamen a callous indifference to their fates.
The captain ordered out of her such stores as might serve the frigate and had combustibles prepared to fire her. Lieutenant Keene boarded La Creole at sunset to ignite her. As the offshore terral began to blow seawards Cyclops weighed her anchor. La Creole burned furiously, a black pall rolling seawards away from the coast of that benighted land.
Cyclops was standing well off shore when La Creole's magazine exploded. An hour later she altered course for Cape Hatteras and New York.
Chapter Seventeen
Decision at the Virginia Capes
April — October 1781
The weather was once more against them. Off the dreaded Cape they met a gale of unbelievable ferocity which tried the gear severely. The main topgallant mast went by the board and took with it the fore and mizen topgallants. During this blow the wounded were, of course, confined below. The cockpit was a scene of utter degradation. The filth in the bilge was augmented by the water made by the straining frigate as she laboured in the seaway and the whole slopped about the bottom of the ship, driving the rodent population higher. The rats ran almost unchecked over the bodies of the dying who retched and urinated without relief. For die they did. Scarce a man who received anything more trivial than a scratch escaped gangrene or blood poisoning of one kind or another.
Drinkwater was one of the fortunate few. His cut, a superficial one, was disfiguring rather than dangerous. Appleby sutured it for him, an Appleby who had lost much rotundity and whose pitifully few medicines were exhausted as he fought disease and sepsis with his own diminishing energies. At last, utterly worn with fatigue and exasperation he wept angry and frustrated tears in the darkness of his hellish kingdom.
Hope buried the bundles in their hammocks. Six one day, nine another as the wind howled, the frigate bucked and the spray drove inboard in hissing sheets. The burial service became curtailed into the briefest formality.
Although the weather was poor it allowed Cyclops to limp north undetected. For she was in no condition to fight. In addition to the heavy losses incurred at the Galuda River the ship's company now had to subsist on rotten stores. Opening the last casks of salt provisions Copping, the purser, had discovered the usually tainted pork was uneatably putrid and the misery of Cyclops's company immeasurably increased.
At last she made her number to the guardship at Sandy Hook and, in company with the members of the North American Squadron, let go her anchor in the Hudson River.
For the last months of effective British rule in any part of her thirteen colonies, His Britannic Majesty's frigate Cyclops lay passive. Arriving at New York on the last day of April 1781 she lay in the mouth of the Hudson without positive orders beyond the general directive to effect repairs to her fabric.
Admiral Arbuthnot did not appear to take a great interest in her arrival as she was not on the establishment of the North American Station. Indeed he seemed rather offended that she should make her appearance anywhere in his command without his receiving prior notice, and visited his displeasure on Captain Hope whom he greeted with icy politeness.
Secretly angry that he had ended up between two stools, Hope claimed his mission had been confidential but, when challenged as to its success, was compelled to report failure. His explanation was received with disbelief, the Admiral firmly maintaining the Carolinas were in British hands. Hope also wished to rid himself of the Continental currency but this was too much for Admiral Arbuthnot who studied the captain through rheumy eyes.
'You arrive on my station, sir, occupy a British post without authority, fail in a mission you claim is secret yet was given you by the captain of a frigate and now you wish me to rid you of an embarrassing sum of rebel currency.' The admiral rose. 'You may retain the stuff until you report to y'r own flag officer, Admiral… Admiral…'
'Kempenfelt, sir.'
'Exactly.' Arbuthnot appeared to consider the matter closed.
'But sir, I have to refit my to'gallants…'
'Your topgallants, sir, are your topgallants and not mine… I suggest you contact Admiral Kempenfelt on the matter. Good day, sir.'
Hope left.
Eventually Arbuthnot's secretary received instructions from London to render such assistance as might be necessary to the frigate Galatea. A note was appended to the effect that due to political circumstances of the greatest importance, Galatea had been retained in home waters and her mission undertaken by Cyclops, Captain Henry Hope, R.N.
The secretary therefore prepared an order for her to come in and draw such stores as she required and refit her gear. Arbuthnot signed the order without comment since he was at that time prone to sign almost anything, being nearly blind. On receipt of these orders Cyclops moved to a berth at the Manhattan Dockyard to commence her repairs. On that evening Hope and Devaux dined together. Over their port, several cases of which had been removed from La Creole, Hope drew Devaux's attention to a decision that the weather and the frigate's cranky tophamper had deferred.
'Assuming that we eventually receive definite orders, Devaux, we have to consider the matter of a replacement
for Skelton. Cranston was a loss to us and the Service as a whole…'
'Yes,' agreed Devaux nodding. His mind slid back to the dense forest and the sight of Cranston's mutilated body… He tore his mind away from the grisly memory.
'D'ye have any opinions?' asked the Captain.
The first lieutenant recollected himself. 'Well sir, the next senior is Morris. His journals are poorly kept, though he's served the six years… I consider him quite unsuitable and I would appreciate his removal from the ship… indeed I threatened him with it I seem to remember… I am of the opinion that young Drinkwater is a likely candidate for an acting lieutenancy.' He paused. 'But surely, sir, there's a junior in the fleet hereabouts…' Devaux indicated the riding lights of several warships visible through the stern windows.
'An Admiral's favourite d'ye mean, Mr Devaux?' asked Hope archly.
'Just so, sir.'
'But Admiral Arbuthnot informed me that the ship is under Kempenfelt's flag. Who am I to question his decision?' he enquired with mock humility, and then in a harder tone, 'besides I am not disposed to question him on the matter of my midshipmen.' He sipped his port. 'Furthermore I submitted a list of casualties that clearly indicated the state of our complement of officers. If he does not see fit to appoint someone he can go to the devil.' He paused. 'Besides I rather suspect Kempenfelt would approve our choice…' Hope smiled benignly and tossed off the glass.
Devaux raised an eyebrow. 'Old Blackmore will be pleased, he's had Drinkwater under his wing since we left Sheerness.' The two officers refilled their glasses.
'Which,' said Devaux choosing his moment, 'brings me to the matter of Morris sir. I'd be obliged if a transfer could be arranged…'
'That is a little drastic, is it not, Mr Devaux. What's behind this request?'
Devaux outlined the problem and added the remark that in any case Morris would resent serving under Drinkwater. Hope snorted.
'Resent! Why I've resented serving under half the officers I've submitted to. But Morris is fortunate, Mr Devaux. Had I known earlier I'd have broken him. Another time I'll trouble you to tell me as soon as you have any inkling of this kind of thing… it's the bane of the Service and produces officers like that loathsome Edgecumbe…' Hope added expansively.
'Yes, sir,' Devaux changed the subject hastily. 'What are the Admiral's intentions, sir?'
Again Hope snorted. 'Intentions! I wish he had some. Why he and General Clinton sit here in New York waving the Union Flag with enough soldiers to wipe Washington off the face of the earth. Clinton shits himself with indecision at the prospect of losing New York and saves face by sending General Philips into Virginny.
'However I hear that Arbuthnot's to be relieved…'
'Who by, sir?'
'Graves…'
'Good God, not Graves…'
'He's a pleasant enough man which is more than I found Arbuthnot.'
'He's an amiable incompetent, sir. Wasn't he court-martialled for refusing battle with an Indiaman?'
'Yes, back in 'fifty-seven… no 'fifty-six. He was acquitted of cowardice but publicly reprimanded for an error of judgement under the 36th Article of War… you must admit some Indiamen pack a punch…' Both officers smiled ruefully at memories of La Creole.
'D'ye know, John, it's one of the great ironies that on the very day the court at Plymouth sentenced Tommy Graves, a court at Portsmouth got John Byng for a similar offence which was far more strategically justifiable. You know what happened to Byng. They sentenced him under the 12th Article… he was shot on his own quarterdeck…' Hope's voice trailed off.
'Pour encourager les autres…' muttered Devaux. 'Voltaire, sir,' he said in explanation as Hope looked up.
'Ah, that Godless French bastard…'
'Does anyone know what's happened to Cornwallis, sir?'
Hope stirred. 'No! I don't believe any of 'em know anything, John. Now what about my main to'gallant…?'
The next morning Devaux sent for Drinkwater. The lieutenant was staring north up the Hudson River to where the New Jersey Palisades could be seen, catching the early sunlight.
'Sir?'
Devaux turned and regarded the young man. The face had matured now. The ragged line of the wound, rapidly scarring, would hardly alter the flesh over the cheekbones though it might contrast the weathered tan. The figure beneath the worn and patched uniform was spare but fit. Devaux snapped his glass shut.
'That hanger you had off La Creole's lieutenant… D'ye still have it?'
Drinkwater coloured. At the end of the action he had found himself still clasping the small sword. It was a fine weapon and its owner had not survived long after the capture of his ship. Drinkwater had regarded the thing as his own part of the spoil. After all the gunroom officers wallowed in the captured wine for weeks afterwards and he felt the weight of a dirk too useless for real fighting. The sword had found its way to the bottom of his sea-chest where it lay wrapped in bunting. He did not know how Devaux knew this but assumed that omniscience was a natural attribute of first lieutenants.
'Well, sir?' queried Devaux, a note of asperity in his voice.
'Er, yes, sir…I, er, do have it…'
'Then ye'd better clap it on y're larboard hip!'
'Beg pardon, sir?' The young man frowned uncomprehendingly.
Devaux laughed at Drinkwater's puzzled expression. 'The captain is promoting you acting third lieutenant as of now. You may move your chest and effects up on to the gun-deck…' He watched the effect of the news on Drinkwater's face. The lad's mouth dropped open, then closed. He blinked, then smiled back. At last he stammered his thanks.
Cyclops lay at her anchor with Arbuthnot's squadron through May and June. During this time Drinkwater's prime task was to get a new broadcloth coat from a New York tailor. The ship had recruited its complement from the guardships but there was little for the men to do. Then, on 12th July, things began to happen. Admiral Graves arrived, a kind, generous but simple incompetent who was to be instrumental in losing the war. Then Rodney's tender Swallow arrived with the intelligence that Admiral De Grasse had left the West Indies with a French fleet bound for the Chesapeake. Graves chose to ignore the warning despite its significance. Since May Lord Cornwallis had abandoned the Carolinas and was combining his force with General Philips's in Virginia. If Cornwallis had De Grasse sitting on his communications with New York he would be cut off. Captains and officers had themselves rowed about the fleet while they grumbled about their admiral's failure to grasp the simplest strategic facts. Cornwallis was retreating to the sea for the navy to support him… but the navy was in New York…
Once again the opinion was expressed that in executing Byng their Lordships had taken more leave of their senses than was usual; they had shot the wrong man.
Another message arrived via Pegasus that urged Graves to sail south and join Sir Samuel Hood, to whom Rodney had relinquished command through ill health. But the fleet remained supinely at anchor.
At the beginning of August Clinton decided to act, not against Virginia, but against Rhode Island where French troops and men o'war were based. Admiral Graves ordered a number of ships down to Sandy Hook in preparation. One of these was Cyclops.
It was at this time that Midshipman Morris left the frigate.
When Cyclops left the Galuda her ship's company were hard put to fight the elements, guard their prisoners and simply survive. The remaining lieutenants were on watch and watch, with the mates and midshipmen equally hard pressed. Drinkwater and Morris were in opposite watches and the preoccupations of working and sleeping allowed no-one the luxury of contemplating the events of past weeks objectively. It would not be true, however, to say that the events and circumstances that had occurred were forgotten. Rather they sat at a level just above the sub-conscious, so that they influenced conduct but did not dominate it. Drinkwater was particularly affected. The horrors he had seen and the guilt he felt over his involvement in the death of Threddle impinged on his self-esteem. And his knowledge of the man
ner of Sharples's death lay like a weight upon his soul.
Although Sharples had been the true murderer of Threddle, Drinkwater knew that he had been driven to it. Morris's coldblooded execution of the seaman at the mill, however, was another matter.
To Drinkwater's mind it was a matter for the law or, and he shuddered at the thought, a matter for vengeance.
When Cyclops arrived at New York there was time, too much time, for the mind to wander over possible causes and effects and the consequences of action.
In the midshipmen's mess some contact with Morris was unavoidable and there had been potentially disruptive scenes. Drinkwater had always avoided them by walking out, but this action had given Morris the impression of an ascendancy over Nathaniel.
Morris had entered the mess some time after, but on the day that Drinkwater had been told of his promotion.
'And what's our brave Nathaniel up to now?' There was silence. Then White came in. 'I've taken your boat-cloak and tarpaulin to your cabin, Nat… er, sir…'
Nathaniel smiled at his friend. 'Thanks, Chalky…'
'Cabin? Sir? What bloody tomfoolery is this…?' Morris was colouring with comprehension. Nathaniel said nothing but continued to pack things in his chest. White could not resist the chance of aggravating the bully at whose hands he had suffered, particularly when he had a powerful ally in the person of the acting third lieutenant.
'Mr Drinkwater,' he said with gravity, 'is promoted to acting third lieutenant.'
Morris glared as he assimilated the news. He turned to Nathaniel in a fury.
'The devil you are. Why you jumped-up little bastard you don't have time in for lieutenant… I suppose you've been arse-licking the first lieutenant again… I'll see about this…' He ran on for some minutes in similar vein.
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