An Eye of the Fleet (15 page)

Algonquin
was on the larboard tack, leaning to starboard. By sheer good fortune Drinkwater's descent was on the larboard side. There was therefore a greater amount of water to starboard and a ‘dry' space for him to cling to. Even so it was slippery with stinking slime. He could see nothing, and yet his eyes stared apprehensively into darkness. All his senses were alert, that of smell almost overpowered by the stench of the bilge. But although he gagged several times he was possessed now by an access of power that drove him relentlessly on, ignoring his bodily weaknesses, impelled by his will.

He moved aft over each of
Algonquin
's timbers. Eventually he found what he hardly dared hope he would discover. The schooner's builders had not constructed the pine planking of the bulkhead down to the timbers. It extended to cross ‘floors' which supported the ‘ceiling' that formed the bottom of the hold. Between that and the ship's skin a small bilge space ran the length of the vessel.

Drinkwater continued aft. Having eventually completed his reconnaissance he began to return to his fellow prisoners. He was excited so that twice he slipped, once going into the foul water up to his chest, but at last he wriggled back into the fo'c's'le. The men were expectantly awaiting his return. They offered him a pull at the water pannikin which he
accepted gratefully. Then he looked round the barely discernible circle of faces.

‘Now my lads,' he said with new-found authority, ‘this is what we'll do . . .'

Captain Josiah King, commander of the privateer
Algonquin
, sat in the neat stern cabin of his schooner drinking a looted bottle of Malmsey. He would be in Morlaix by morning if the wind did not veer again. There he could disencumber himself of these British prisoners. He shuddered at the recollection of losing his ship, but as quickly consoled himself with his own forethought. The contingency plan had worked well—the British lieutenant had been a fool. The British always were. King had been with Whipple when the Rhode Islanders burnt the Government schooner
Gaspée
, back in '72. He remembered her captain, Lieutenant Duddingstone, acting the hero waving a sword about. A thrust in the groin soon incapacitated him. They had cast the unfortunate lieutenant adrift in a small boat. King smiled at the memory. When the magistrates eventually examined the cause of the burning the entire population of the town protested ignorance. King knew every spirited man in Newport had answered Whipple's summons. The American smiled again.

Burgoyne had been a fool too with his clap-trap about honourable terms of surrender. Never mind that Gates had promised his army a safe-conduct to the coast. The British had surrendered and then been locked up for their pains. That was what war was about: winning. Simply that and nothing else.

Warmed by recollection and wine he did not hear the slight scuffle of feet in the alleyway outside . . .

Drinkwater's plan worked perfectly. They had waited until well after dark. By this time such food as the Americans allowed them had been consumed. Each fit man was detailed off to follow in order and keep in contact with the man ahead.

The midshipman led the way. The wind had eased and
Algonquin
heeled less. The passage of the bilge was foul. Rats scrabbled out of their way, squealing a protest into the darkness, but no one complained. The filthy fo'c's'le was stinking with the corpse's corruption and their own excrement. Activity, even in a malodourous bilge, was preferable to the miasma of death prevailing in their cramped quarters.

When he reached the after end of the hold Drinkwater moved
out to the side. Here there were gratings that ran round the schooner's lazarette. The wooden powder magazine was set in the centre of the ship with the catwalk all around. This was decked with the gratings that now barred their passage. Upon these the gunner's mates walked round tending the lanterns that, shining through glass, safely illuminated the gunner within and enabled him to make up his cartridges.

Sergeant Hagan followed Drinkwater. Between them they lifted a grating and got through. Men followed silently. They were still in darkness but a faint current of air told where a small hatch led on deck at the top of a panelled trunking. It was locked. Drinkwater and Hagan felt round the space. Behind the ladder they found a door that led into the after quarters. It too was locked.

Hagan swore. They knew that once they were through that door they had a fair chance of success. In there were the officers' quarters. On either side of the alleyway beyond there were a couple of cabins and at the end, athwart the ship, the stern cabin. If they failed to capture the deck possession of the after quarters would probably result in the capture of an officer who might be useful as a hostage. But the door was secured against them.

Drinkwater dared not rattle the lock. In the darkness he could hear his men breathing. They all relied on him; what could he do now? He felt the hot tears of frustrated anger begin to collect and he was for the first time thankful for the darkness.

‘Beg pardon, sir . . . ?' A voice whispered.

‘Yes?'

‘Locked door, sir?'

‘Yes.' He replied without hope.

‘Let me have a look, sir.'

There was a pushing and a shoving. A man came past. There was a silence as eighteen men held their breath, the creaking of the schooner and hiss of the sea seemed inaudible. Then a faint click was heard.

A man shoved back into the queue.

‘Try it now, sir.'

Drinkwater found the handle and turned it very slowly. The door gave. He pulled it to again. ‘What's your name?'

‘Best you don't know it sir.'

There was a muffled snigger. The man was doubtless one of
Cyclops
's many thieves. With the scum of London pressed in her crew it was not surprising. Nevertheless the man's nefarious skill had saved the situation.

‘Are you ready?' Drinkwater enquired generally in a loud whisper.

‘Aye! Aye! . . .' The replies were muffled but nothing could disguise their eagerness.

Drinkwater opened the door. He made directly for the companionway. Hagan and the marine behind him made for the arms chest outside the stern cabin. Alternately a marine and a seaman emerged blinking into the dimly lit alleyway. The marines armed themselves with the cutlasses Hagan thrust at them; then in pairs they burst into the cabins. They took Josiah King before the Rhode Islander's feet hit the deck. His flimsy cabin door was dashed to matchwood and Hagan, his face contorted into a furious grimace presented the point of a cutlass to King's chest.

Drinkwater dashed on deck. His heart was pounding and fear lent a ferocity to him. The companionway emerged on deck abaft a skylight that let on to the passageway. Fortunately for the British a canvas cover was pulled over this to prevent the light disturbing the helmsman. But the helmsman stood immediately aft of the hatch, behind the binnacle. He leant against the huge tiller, straining with the effort of maintaining weather helm.

The mate on deck was a little further forward but he turned at the helmsman's exclamation. Drinkwater ran full tilt at the mate, knocking him over. The two men behind him secured the helmsman. He was tossed howling over the stern while the next man grabbed the tiller so that
Algonquin
scarcely faltered on her course.

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.

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 prizecrew'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 long boat 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.