An Eye of the Fleet (30 page)

Perhaps, after all, his fears were the groundless suppositions of an overtaxed nervous system . . .

But on the morning of Morris's departure Drinkwater was again in doubt.

He was reading in the confined privacy of his tiny cabin when the door was flung unceremoniously open. Morris stood on the threshold. He was drunk and held in his hand a piece of crumpled paper.

‘I've come to shay good-by, Mishter Fucking Drinkwater . . .' he slurred, his hooded lids half closed, ‘. . . I want to tell you that you and I have unfinished businesh to attend to . . .' he managed a mirthless chuckle, spittle bubbling round his mouth.

‘Ish funny really . . . you and I could've become friends . . .' Tears were visible in the corners of his eyes and Drinkwater slowly realised the awful, odious implication in the man's words. Morris sniffed, drawing his cuff across his nose. Then he began chuckling again.

‘I've a letter from my shishter here . . . she knows a man or two at the Admiralty. She promishes me to use her four-poshter to make me a posht Captain . . . now don't you think thatsh bloody funny Mishter Drinkwater? Don't you think thatsh about the funniesht thing you've ever heard . . . ?' he paused to chuckle at the ribald pun, then his smile vanished and with it his drunken laxity. The threat he had come to utter reinforced by rum was from his heart:

‘And if as a consequence I can ever destroy you or your Miss Bower I will . . . by God I will . . .'

At the mention of Elizabeth's name Nathaniel felt the terrible icy rage that had despatched the French privateer officer flood his veins. Morris fell back abruptly and stumbling, sprawled on the deck. Drinkwater had the captured sword half out of its scabbard when the abject spectacle of his adversary quailing before him brought him to his senses. He slammed the
fragile door to his cabin and snapped the sword down in its sheath. Outside he heard Morris's feet scrape on the deck as he staggered upright.

Drinkwater stood stock still in the centre of the room, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He began shaking like an aspen leaf in a breeze and found himself looking at the little picture of the
Algonquin
that Elizabeth had given him and that his new-found privacy had allowed him to hang.

He reached out a shaking hand to reassure himself of its reality . . .

On August 16th, 1781, the ships at Sandy Hook sighted sails to the southward. Sir Samuel Hood arrived in a lather, furious to find Admiral Graves still in New York. The Rear Admiral had himself rowed up the harbour to harangue Graves when he found the latter ashore in his comfortable house. Though junior to Graves, Hood impressed his superior of the size of the French fleet in North American waters. In view of Graves's apparent pusillanimity he suppressed details of the unseaworthiness of his own squadron, one ship of which was actually in a sinking condition.

Graves was suddenly infected with the panic of rapid action and ordered his fleet to sea.

But it was still the end of the month before the twenty-one line of battleships were proceeding south. De Barras at Rhode Island with eight of the line had already sailed and the previous day Admiral De Grasse had anchored his own twenty eight of the line, numerous frigates and transports in the Chesapeake. He had also landed 3,000 troops to surround an obscure peninsula called Yorktown.

Lord Cornwallis was cut off, for Washington and Rochambeau were marching south from the Hudson Highlands, across New Jersey their flank exposed to the inactive Clinton at New York, to join up with La Fayette and close the iron ring round the hapless Earl.

What happened to Cornwallis is history. The British fleets sailed south too late. Graves flung out his frigates and
Cyclops
stood to the eastward, thus taking no part in the forthcoming battle.

The fleet fought an action with De Grasse which was indecisive in itself. But it was enough for Graves. De Grasse
retained possession of the Bay of the Chesapeake. At the time De Barras had not arrived but when Graves, realising the enormity of his blunder tried a second time to draw out De Grasse, the British Admiral found De Barras had reinforced the Comte and drew off.

Cornwallis was abandoned.

A gallant effort was made to cross the James River under cover of darkness to where Tarleton held a bridgehead at Gloucester, but after the first boats had got over a violent storm got up and the breakout to New York was abandoned. A few weeks later Lord Cornwallis surrendered and the war with America was effectively, if not officially, over.

Cyclops
, scouting eastward, missed both the action off the Virginia Capes and a sight of De Barras's squadron. She eventually returned to New York to receive belated recognition from the new Commander in Chief that she belonged to the Channel Fleet. After despatching the fast tender
Rattlesnake
with the news of the loss of Cornwallis's Army at the end of October, Admiral Graves recollected that although fast she was lightly armed and a vulnerable prey to a French cruiser or a marauding Yankee privateer. In typical fashion he vacillated, fretting about the fate of
Rattlesnake
, worrying that his report might fall into enemy hands. Eventually he decided to send a frigate with a duplicate set of despatches.

It seemed a good idea, his secretary advised, to take the opportunity of sending
Cyclops
back to Kempenfelt.

Acting Lieutenant Nathaniel Drinkwater stopped pacing to stare up at the main topgallant. His body balanced effortlessly as the ship moved beneath him, a near south-westerly gale thrumming in the rigging and sending a patter of spray over the starboard quarter rail.

He studied the sail for a moment. There was no mistaking the strain on the weather sheet or the vibration transmitted to the yard below. It was time to shorten sail.

‘Mr White!' The boy was immediately attentive: ‘My compliments to the captain and the wind's freshening. With his approval I intend furling the t'gallants.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater stared into the binnacle. The two helmsmen grunted and sweated as they fought to hold
Cyclops
on course.
He watched the gently oscillating compass card. Advancing daylight already rendered the oil lamp superfluous. The heaving grey Atlantic lifted the frigate's quarter, sent her scudding forward until it passed under her and she dragged into the trough, stabbing her bowsprit at the sky. Then her stern lifted again and the cycle repeated itself, over and over, all the three thousand miles from New York to the chops of the Channel . . .

Drinkwater felt none of the shame being experienced by Captain Hope shaving in the cabin below. For Hope already knew the heady wine of victory, having fought through the glorious period of the Seven Years War. To end his career in defeat was a bitter blow, a condemnation of the years of labour and a justification of his cynicism that was only alleviated by the draft on Tavistock's for four thousand sterling.

To Drinkwater the events of the last few weeks had been a culmination. In their fruitless search for De Barras they had boxed the compass off Long Island and the New England coast. To Nathaniel, free of the oppressive presence of Morris, it had been a glorious time, a fruitful splendid time in which, cautiously at first, but with growing confidence, he had handled the ship.

He looked up at the now furled topgallants. His judgement was vindicated for
Cyclops
had not slackened her pace.

He saw Captain Hope ascend the companionway. He vacated the windward side, touching his hat as the captain passed.

‘ 'Morning, sir.'

‘G'morning, Mr Drinkwater.' Hope glanced aloft. ‘Anything in sight?'

‘Nothing reported, sir.'

‘Very well.' Hope looked at the log slate.

‘Should raise the Lizard before dark, sir, by my reckoning,' volunteered Drinkwater. Hope grunted and began pacing the weather quarterdeck. Drinkwater moved over to the lee side where young Chalky White was shivering in the down-draught of the main topsail.

‘Mr Drinkwater!' The captain called sharply.

‘Sir?' Drinkwater hurried over to where the captain was regarding him with a frown. His heart sank.

‘Sir?' he repeated.

‘You are not wearing your sword!'

‘Sir?' repeated Drinkwater yet again, his forehead wrinkling in a frown.

‘It is the first morning you have had your present appointment that you have not worn it.'

‘Is it, sir?' Drinkwater blushed. Behind him White giggled.

‘You must be paying the correct attention to your duties and less to your personal appearance. I am pleased to see it.'

Drinkwater swallowed.

‘Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Hope resumed his pacing. White was in stitches, the subject of Mr Drinkwater's sword having caused much amusement between decks. Drinkwater turned on him.

‘Mr White! Take a glass to the foremasthead and look for England!'

‘England, Nat . . . Mr Drinkwater, sir?'

‘Yes, Mr White! England!'

England, he thought, England and Elizabeth . . .