An Eye of the Fleet (9 page)

Drinkwater brought the gig alongside. Hope reached the deck
and the pipes twittered in salute. Every man upon the upper deck ceased work to look at the captain for some sign of news of the
Santa Teresa
. All they perceived was a stony face.

So, they concluded, their worst fears were realised. Hope walked directly aft and disappeared. The eyes of the ship's company followed the captain's retreating back. One hundred and seventy six men, just then occupied upon the upper deck of
Cyclops
were united in a moment of immobile, silent, bitter disappointment.

Some half-hour later Drinkwater was dispatched again in the gig. Instead of the captain the midshipman had orders to convey Mr Copping, the purser, ashore. Mr Copping imparted the intelligence that he was entrusted to buy some special provisions for the captain's table that evening and that the captain was holding a dinner for his officers. He also handed Drinkwater a letter written in the old captain's crabbed hand. The superscription was to ‘His Excellency Richard Kempenfelt, Rear Admiral'. Drinkwater was to deliver it while the purser attended to his purchases.

Hope had invited all his officers, the master, gunner and the midshipmen. Appleby, the surgeon, was also present. They gathered noisily aft at three bells in the second dog watch with only the first lieutenant and Wheeler absent forming an honour guard to greet the Admiral.

When Hope had impulsively dashed off his invitation to Kempenfelt he was in boyish high spirits. He had suppressed his mirth as he snapped orders at Copping so that that individual had left his commander with the positive belief that the worst fears of the ship's company were realised and had lost no time in sending word forward that further optimism was futile.

Hope saw the Admiral as the true author of his good fortune and in some way wished to acknowledge his gratitude. For Kempenfelt was a popular sea officer whose brilliance shone in an age when brains were not the qualification for flag rank. His innovations were admired throughout the fleet where thinking men discussed the handling of fleets under sail more than jobbery or place seeking. Kempenfelt was, perhaps, more than that to Hope. To the captain, whose post rank he owed to the political faction he despised, the Rear-Admiral was a respected figure, and in an age when lip service of the greatest extravagance disguised base motives, Hope wished to demonstrate
honest, simple admiration.

But as his officers collected on the deck above, the captain had his private doubts. Midshipman Drinkwater had brought back the Admiral's acceptance and he was beset by second thoughts. The prank he was playing on his own ship's company was childish—but captains could indulge themselves to some extent with their own people; admirals were rather different. He was not sure now what Kempenfelt would think . . .

Above his head the buzz of speculative conversation came down the skylight. The officers might have got wind of the prize court's decision; it was unlikely that they had not heard by now and were doubtless writing him off as an old fool. Hope flushed but recollected himself when he heard the note of resignation in the babble above. He listened more attentively. He heard the second lieutenant, Mr Price, his lilting Welsh voice vaguely angry, say ‘I told you so, eh Blackmore?' Hope could imagine the old sailing master, called in as an ally in disappointment, a man so like himself that the captain could imagine the years of experience formulating a reply to Price.

‘That's right, Mr Price, you'll never see Jolly Jack make a brass farthing out of his business,' the remark was made dully, authoritatively, an oft-uttered and oft-heard contention. Hope suddenly grinned—to hell with admirals! He had a surprise for Blackmore, a good surprise too, and of all his ship's company he would be most pleased to see the white-haired master receive his share.

A knock came at the door. ‘Enter,' Devaux stepped inside.

‘All ready sir, and the Admiral's barge is in sight.' The first lieutenant hesitated, wanting to say more. ‘Sir . . . ?'

Hope enjoyed Devaux's discomfort. So often the easy mannered savoir faire of the man had irritated him. Assuredly this was Henry Hope's day.

‘Yes, Mr Devaux?'

‘The . . . the prize, sir?'

Hope looked up sharply—perhaps his little drama made him overreact but it had its effect on Devaux. The first lieutenant jumped for the captain's threshold like a chastened midshipman.

‘The prize, Mr Devaux, the prize . . .' Hope managed a tone of outraged propriety, ‘don't talk to me of prizes when there's an Admiral to meet.'

Rear Admiral Richard Kempenfelt greeted Captain Hope with a smile. He doffed his tricorne to Wheeler and his guard and nodded to Devaux. His eye rove over
Cyclops
and her company as Hope conducted him aft to where the now silent group of officers waited. Those who noticed such details watched their captain earnestly addressing the admiral. They might also have noticed the admiral's smile broaden and crack open in a brief laugh. At the laugh Hope relaxed. It
was
going to be his day after all.

Hope introduced his officers, the warrant officers and midshipmen. Then Kempenfelt asked to be conducted round the ship.

‘I merely want to see something of
Cyclops
and the brave fellows who took that Spaniard.'

Someone in the waist raised a formal cheer for the Admiral. To Devaux's ears its very half-heartedness was shameful. He did not notice Kempenfelt's eyes twinkle with amusement.

After his brief tour of the frigate the admiral turned to Hope.

‘You've a damned taut ship, Captain Hope. We shall find work for you to do. In the mean time . . .' he lowered his voice. Hope nodded and turned to Devaux. ‘Call all hands aft, Mr Devaux.'

There was a vast shuffling and scurrying to a twitter of pipes and a bellowing of orders. Red-coated marines stamped aft and gradually a sort of order fell on the ship. Kempenfelt stepped forward and addressed them.

‘D'you hear now my lads, Captain Hope has asked that I give ye all the news of your prize, the frigate
Santa Teresa
.' He paused to watch the shuffle throughout the assembly. Expectancy, kindled in their faces by the presence of the admiral, now became a restless eagerness. The ragged line wavered.

‘You'll be pleased to know she's been purchased for . . .' He tailed off as a buzz that swiftly became a hum broke out.

‘Silence there!' yelled Devaux.

‘. . . she's been purchased for 15,000 guineas sterling and you'll all receive your due according to usage and custom.' The admiral stepped back.

Devaux looked at Hope; he was smiling cherubically. Then,
sensing the moment was right he called out:

‘Three cheers for the Admiral . . .'

It was no longer half-hearted. They heard the noise on
Cerberus
a mile away. As the cheering died down Hope announced to Devaux, ‘Mr Devaux, you may allow wives and sweethearts tomorrow, apparently the admiral's office announced us a few days ago . . .'

Captain Hope was having his day. As he ushered the Admiral and his flag lieutenant into the cabin there were more cheers for the captain himself.

The dinner in Captain Hope's cabin that evening was, as naval dinners went, unremarkable. But the setting sun laid a path of glittering gold from the horizon to the very stern windows of
Cyclops
and invested the scene with some of its magic. The excited babble of talk amongst the juniors present and the natural elation due to the unaccustomed wine and natural headiness of the occasion nevertheless lent to the proceedings a degree of memorability.

Copping had provided a banquet within the limits of his materials. If Kempenfelt was unimpressed by the cookery he did not show it and to the short-rationed midshipmen any meal of more than one course automatically assumed the dignity of
haute cuisine
.

Fortunately the
Santa Teresa
's loot had yielded a sufficiency of both Oporto and Jerez wines which made up for the indifference of Hope's claret. Some Havana cigars were also salved which, after the duff and capons had been consumed, filled the air with the aromatic luxury of their blue smoke.

A bare hour after they had sat down Drinkwater's body was enjoying the pleasant sensations of a mild drugging. His stomach was distended to unusual proportions and his head just beginning to assume that lucid detachment from his limbs that is the pleasantest but also the briefest stage of drunkenness. As for his forgotten legs, they reclined as he had negligently left them before the increase in his cerebral concentration had drawn all the energy from them. He heard without fully comprehending the senior officers discussing Kempenfelt's new code of signals. The admiral's explanation of Rodney's action off Martinique passed through his aural organs and left his brain to seize on and amplify certain graphic phrases that his overwrought imagination dwelt on.

Hope, Price, Keene, Devaux and Blackmore listened to the rear-admiral with professional deference, but to Drinkwater the splendid figure of Kempenfelt poured forth the very stuff of dreams.

After the loyal toast Kempenfelt proposed one to the
Cyclops
's gallantry in the night action off Cadiz. In turn Hope toasted an admiral ‘without whose ratification their fortunes would have remained uncertain'. The admiral prodded his flag lieutenant and that worthy rose unsteadily and read a prepared statement toasting Lieutenant John Devaux and Midshipman Nathaniel Drinkwater for their bold action in boarding the prize and earning a special place in Hope's report. Devaux rose and bowed to the flag lieutenant and the admiral. Recalling that the midshipman had the post of honour in receiving the Spaniard's surrender he called upon the young gentleman to reply.

Drinkwater was barely aware of what was required of him, but he was suddenly aware of Morris staring at him from the far side of the table with an evil grin upon his face. The face seemed to grow larger, terrifying in its size, oppressive with malice. Conversation died as all turned to stare at him. He was confused. He remembered a succession of his seniors standing in turn and he rose unsteadily to his feet. For a moment or two he stood there swaying slightly. The bored expression of the flag lieutenant changed to one of sudden interest at the prospect of a neat gaffe with which to entertain his fashionable friends.

Drinkwater stared out through the stern windows to where the last shreds of daylight flared above the horizon. Morris's face faded and that of his mother swam before him. He remembered her preparing his sea-kit, sewing a table cloth for her son to use at sea. It lay hidden and unused at the bottom of his chest. It bore a motto. That motto sprang into his midshipman's mind now and he uttered it in a loud, commanding voice:

‘Confusion to the king's enemies!' He said it all in one breath and without a slur. He sat down abruptly as a roar of assent went round the table. The flag lieutenant resumed his bored expression.

He vaguely heard Kempenfelt's approbatory comment: ‘Damme Captain, a real fire eater!'

On awakening next morning Drinkwater had only the haziest notions of turning in the previous night. He was not sure at what hour the Admiral had left for after his toast the evening had become a blur. The blue and white uniforms, the gold braid and pink faces seemed shrouded in more than tobacco smoke. Wheeler's scarlet coat and glittering gorget had glowed like a surrogate sun in the candlelight as they joked and laughed and became serious again. The conversation had turned on a variety of topics; had been general, then particular; bawdy then technical as the portions of the table concentrated, divided then joined again in a verbal tide.

The event had been a triumph for Henry Hope. As a crowning to the evening Blackmore had suggested a little music and word was passed for O'Malley. The diminutive Irish cook entered, stealing sidelong glances at the ruins of the meal and the empty bottles. He produced some sweet and melancholic airs after the fashion of the time which brought an appreciative silence to the table. He concluded to loud applause with a frantic jig from his native land which, drawn from the wild turbulence of his people, seemed to Drinkwater to summarise the exhilaration of that Moonlight Battle in which these genial fellows had taken such a part.

Little O'Malley had gone forward two guineas better off with a farewell whose obsequiousness was not that of sobriety but suggested that, in the course of roasting the very capons whose ruins he had so enviously regarded, he had partaken of ‘pusser's dips'.

Despite the vague recollections of a successful evening Drinkwater woke to the disturbing sensation that all was not well. He had a headache due to the quite unaccustomed quantity of wine he had consumed but it was more than that. He groped in his mind for some memory that would give him a clue to his disquiet. At first he thought he had committed some impropriety. His stomach contracted at the thought of an indiscretion in front of the admiral. But the approach
of a figure traversing the darkened orlop brought the memory back.