An Eye of the Fleet (14 page)

‘Wh . . . where the hell am I?' he asked out loud.

A groan came from alongside him. Then a hand grasped his knee.

‘Mister Drinkwater?' A strained voice enquired, pain and anxiety in the tone of it.

‘Yes.'

‘Grattan, sir, marine.'

‘Eh . . . Oh, yes.'

‘We're in the fo'c's'le . . . just the wounded, sir . . .'

‘Wounded?'

‘Aye, sir, you were unconscious. My arm's broken . . .'

‘Oh, I'm sorry . . .'

‘Thank you, sir.' Drinkwater's brain was beginning to grasp the situation and an enormous and painful bump on the crown of his head testified to the accuracy of the marine's report. Recollection came back to him. He sat up and took stock.

‘What's that noise then?'

‘Sweepin', sir . . . that's what the others are doin'.'

Before he could ask more the hatch flew open. A few cold drops of moisture dripped into Drinkwater's upturned face, then the shape of a man lowering himself down blotted out
the foggy daylight.

The man bent over each of the prisoners in turn. When he got to Drinkwater he grunted: ‘You're fit. Get on deck!' He grabbed Drinkwater's arm and dragged him to his feet.

A few moments later Drinkwater stood unsteadily on the deck of
Algonquin
and looked aft. The source of the strange noise revealed itself. Still shrouded in fog,
Algonquin
was making slow but steady headway over the calm, grey sea. Between the gun ports oak thole pins had been driven into the caprail. At each set of pins a long oar, or sweep, was shipped. Two men were stationed at each sweep, heaving it back and forth so that the schooner made way to the southward. The men at the sweeps were nearly all British. One of the American mates walked up and down the deck with a rope's end. Every now and again he brought it down on the bare back of a seaman or the sweat-darkened red coat of a marine.

Drinkwater was pushed along the deck, given a pannikin of green water from the scuttle butt and shoved alongside a marine pulling the aftermost larboard sweep. The man was Hagan. He was running with sweat as the rigging dripped with foggy dew.

Hagan grunted a welcome and Drinkwater grasped the loom of the sweep. It was slippery with the blood and plasma of the man he had relieved. Within a quarter of an hour Drinkwater knew why the privateer was under sweeps. The progress through the fog was an advantage to the American commander but it was also the most efficient way of exhausting the British. An exhausted prize crew would not attempt further resistance.

After an hour Drinkwater had reached a state of physical numbness that utterly overpowered him. He had ceased to feel the mate's starter. His head throbbed but his brain had ceased to function. It was Hagan who roused him from his torpor. The marine sergeant hissed between clenched teeth, ‘Breeze comin'.'

Drinkwater raised his head and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. A catspaw rippled the greasy surface of the sea. The sun was brighter now, warmer. He had no idea of the time nor of how long he had been semi-conscious. The fog began to disperse. Imperceptibly at first, wind and sunshine broke through the murk.

An hour later there was a breeze. Light and fitful, it
steadied to become a north westerly air. From a zephyr it graduated to a breeze and the American commander ordered the sweeps inboard and the sails hoisted. Before they were herded below into the fo'c's'le Drinkwater was aware that
Algonquin
was headed south east for he had heard the helm order. As the hatch closed over the British the schooner heeled and the water of the Channel hissed past her washboards with increasing speed.

The British prize crew aboard the
Algonquin
were in a pathetic state. It had been evening when the Americans had retaken their ship. All that night the British had swept the craft south, away from the Cornish coast. It was the following dawn when the midshipman, recovering consciousness, had been forced on deck. By the time the breeze sprang up the day was far advanced.

In the stinking fo'c's'le the British sprawled in all attitudes of exhausted abandon. After a while the eyes adjusted to the darkness and Drinkwater could see the men asleep. He looked for Grattan. The man tossed restlessly, his eyes staring. He was the only other man awake. Another, whose name Drinkwater did not know, was dead. His head had been injured and dried blood blackened his face. He lay stiff, his mouth open, emitting a silent cry that would echo forever. Drinkwater shivered.

Grattan was muttering incoherently for the pain of his arm had brought on a fever.

At noon the hatch was shoved open. A pan of thin soup, some biscuit and water were lowered down. The hatch was being closed again when Drinkwater roused himself and called, ‘We've a dead man down here.'

The hatch stopped and the silhouette of a man's head and shoulders were visible against the sky.

‘So?' he drawled.

‘Will you permit him to be taken on deck?' There was a pause.

‘He's one of yours. You brought him: you keep him.' A gobbet of spittle flew down and the hatch slammed shut.

The exchange had woken the men. They made for the food, improvising means of eating it, dunking the biscuit and sucking it greedily.

After a while Sergeant Hagan crawled over to the midshipman.

‘Beg pardon, Mr Drinkwater, but 'ave you any orders?'

‘Eh? What's that?' Drinkwater was uncomprehending.

‘Mr Price is dead. You're in charge, sir.'

Drinkwater looked at the quartermasters and the marines. They were all older than him. They had all been at sea longer than he had. Surely they were not expecting him to . . . ? He looked at Hagan. Hagan with twenty-odd years of sea-soldiering to his credit, Hagan with his bragging stories of service under Hawke and Boscawen, Hagan with his resource and courage . . .

But Hagan was looking at
him
. Drinkwater's mouth opened to protest his unsuitability. He had not the slightest idea what to do. He closed it again.

Hagan came to his rescue.

‘Right lads, Mr Drinkwater wants a roll-call,' he said, ‘so let's see how many of us there are . . . Right . . . ,' Hagan coughed, ‘Marines speak up!' Apart from the sergeant there were five marines left.

‘Quartermasters?' The two quartermasters were both still alive and unwounded.

‘Bosun's mates?' There was silence.

‘Seamen?' Eleven voices were eventually identified, one of whom complained of a sprained ankle.

Hagan turned to Drinkwater. ‘That's . . . er, counting yerself, sir, that's exactly a score, though one is unfit, sir . . .' Hagan seemed to think that this round figure represented some triumph for the British.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,' Drinkwater managed, unconsciously aping Devaux in his diction. He wondered what was next expected of him. Hagan asked:

‘Where d'ye think they mean to take us, sir?'

Drinkwater was about to snap that he had not the faintest idea when he remembered the helm orders as he left the deck.

‘South-east,' he said. Recalling the chart he repeated their course and added their destination. ‘South-east, to France . . .'

‘Aye,' said one of the quartermasters, ‘The bloody rebels have found some fine friends with the frog-eating Johnny Crapo's. They'll be takin' us to Morlaix or St Malo . . .'

Hagan spoke again. His simple words came like a cold douche to Drinkwater. Hagan was the fighter, Hagan the expediter of plans. Hagan would not shrink from a physical task once that task had been assigned to him. But he looked to the quality
to provide the ideas. To him Drinkwater, in his half-fledged manhood, represented the quality. In the general scheme of things it was assumed a person of Drinkwater's rank automatically had the answer. He was what was known on a King's ship as a ‘young gentleman'.

‘What do we do, sir?'

Drinkwater's mouth flapped open again. Then he collected himself and spoke, realising their plight was hourly more desperate.

‘We retake the ship!'

A pathetically feeble, yet strangely gratifying, cheer went round the men.

Drinkwater went on, gaining confidence as he strung his thoughts together.

‘Every mile this ship covers takes her nearer to France and you all know what that means . . .' There was a morose grumble that indicated they knew only too well. ‘. . . There are nineteen fit men here against what? . . . about three dozen Americans? Does anyone know approximately how many were killed on deck?'

A speculative buzz arose, indicative of rising morale.

‘Lots went down when the lieutenant fired the gun, sir . . .' Drinkwater recognised Sharples's voice. In the bustle of events he had forgotten all about Sharples and his being in the prize crew. He was oddly comforted by the man's presence. ‘. . . and we fixed a few, you did for one, sir . . .' admiration was clear in the man's voice.

Hagan interrupted. It was a sergeant's business to estimate casualties. ‘I'd say we did for a dozen, Mr Drinkwater . . . say three dozen left.' Grunts of agreement came from the men.

‘Right, three dozen it is,' Drinkwater continued. An idea had germinated in his brain. ‘They're armed, we're not. We're in the fo'c's'le which is sealed from the rest of the ship. It was the one place
we
chose to put
them
.' He paused.

‘They got out because they made a plan long before we took them. As a . . . er . . . contingency . . . I heard the American captain tell Lieutenant Price he would retake his ship. It was almost like a boast. I've heard Americans have a reputation for boasting . . .' A desperate cackle that passed for a laugh emanated from the gloomy darkness.

Hagan interrupted again. ‘But I don't see how this helps
us, sir. They got out.'

‘Yes, Mr Hagan. They got out by using their plan. They were model prisoners until they had made their arrangements. They lulled us until the last possible moment then they took back their ship. If we hadn't run into fog we might have been under the lee of the Lizard by now . . .' he paused again, collecting his thoughts, his heart thumping at the possibility . . .

‘Someone told me these Yankee ships were mostly made of soft-wood and liable to rot.' A murmur of agreement came from one or two of the older hands.

‘Perhaps we could break through the bulkhead or deck into the hold, and work our way aft. Then we could turn the tables on them . . .'

There was an immediate buzz of interest. Hagan, however was unconvinced and adopted an avuncular attitude. ‘But, Nat lad, if we can do that why didn't the Yankees?'

‘Aye, aye' said several voices.

But Drinkwater was convinced it was their only hope. ‘Well I'm not sure,' he replied, ‘but I think they didn't want to raise our suspicions by any noise. It is going to be difficult for us . . . Anyway, if I am right they already had a plan worked out which relied on us behaving in a predictable manner. Now we've got to better them. Let's start searching for somewhere to begin.'

In the darkness it took them an hour to find a weak, spongy plank in the deck of the fo'c's'le. Hagan produced the answer to their lack of tools by employing his boots. The joke this produced raised morale still further, for the booted marines, the unpopular policemen of a man o'war, were the butt of many a barefoot sailor's wit.

Hagan smashed in enough to get a hand through, timing his kicks to coincide with the plunging of the
Algonquin
's bow into the short Channel seas. For the wind veered and the schooner was laid well over, going to windward like a thoroughbred. Regularly and rhythmically she thumped into each wave and as she did so she disguised the noise of demolition.

The deck lifted easily once an aperture had been made. Access was swiftly gained to the cable tier below. Drinkwater descended himself.

The schooner's cable lay on a platform of wooden slats. Beneath these the swirl and rush of bilge water revealed a
passage aft. It was totally dark below but, doing his best to ignore the stench, he pressed on driven by desperation. He wriggled over the coils of rope and in one corner, unencumbered by cable he found the athwartships bulkhead that divided the forepart of the ship from the hold. Here he found the slatting broken and ill-fitting.

He had to get aft of the bulkhead. He struggled down in the corner, worming his way beneath the cable tier platform where they failed to meet the ship's side properly. Something ran over his foot. He shuddered in cold terror, never having mastered a fear of rats. Fighting back his nausea he lowered himself into the bilgewater. Its cold stink rose up on his legs and lapped at his genitals. For a long moment he hung poised, the malodorously filthy water clammily disgusting him. Then a strange, detached feeling came over him: as if he watched himself. In that moment he gained strength to go on. Continuing his immersion Nathaniel Drinkwater finally forsook adolescence.