An Eye of the Fleet (21 page)

One night, black and blue from a beating by Morris, the unfortunate White had lain unable to sleep. Tears had come to him and he lay quietly sobbing in the subterranean blackness of the cockpit.

On deck it had come on to rain. Drinkwater slipped below for his tarpaulin and found the boy weeping. For a moment he stood listening in the darkness, then, remembering Morris discovering him in identical circumstances, he went over to the boy.

‘What's the matter, Chalky?' he enquired softly. ‘Are you sick?'

‘N-no, sir.'

‘Don't “sir” me, Chalky . . . it's me, Nat . . . what's the matter?'

‘Nnn . . . nothing, Nnn . . . Nat . . . it's nothing.'

It was not very difficult for Nathaniel to guess the person responsible for the boy's misery, but it was a measure of his worldliness that he assumed the crime fouler than mere bullying.

‘Is it Morris, Chalky?'

The silence from the hammock had an eloquence of its own.

‘It is isn't it?'

A barely perceptible ‘Yes' came out of the gloom.

Drinkwater patted a thin and shaking shoulder. ‘Don't worry, Chalky, I'll fix him.'

‘Thanks . . . N . . . Nat,' the boy choked and as Drinkwater crept away he heard a barely audible whisper: ‘Oh mmm . . . mother . . .'

Returning to duty Nathaniel Drinkwater received a rebuke from Lieutenant Skelton for leaving the deck.

The following day was Sunday and after divine service the watch below were piped to dinner. Drinkwater found himself at mess with Morris. Several other midshipmen were in the cockpit struggling with their salt pork. One of them was Cranston.

Drinkwater swallowed the remains of his blackstrap and then addressed Morris in tones of deliberate formality.

‘Mr Morris, as you are senior midshipman in this mess I have a request to make.'

Morris looked up. A warning sounded in his brain as he recalled the last time Drinkwater had uttered such formal words to him. Although he had scarcely exchanged any word with his enemy beyond the minimum necessary to the conduct of the vessel he regarded Drinkwater with suspicion.

‘Well what is it?'

‘Simply that you cease your abominable tyranny over young White.'

Morris stared at Drinkwater. He flushed, then began casting angrily about.

‘Why the damned little tell-tale, wait till I get hold of him . . .' he rose, but Drinkwater objected.

‘He told me nothing Morris, but I'm warning you: leave him alone . . .'

‘Ah, so you fancy him do you . . . like that fancy tart you've got at Falmouth . . .'

Drinkwater hadn't expected that. Then he remembered Threddle in the boat and the letter lying in his sea chest . . . for a second he was silent. It was too long. He had lost the initiative.

‘And what will you do, Mister bloody Drinkwater . . .' Morris was threatening him now . . .

‘Thrash you as I did before . . .' maintained Drinkwater stoutly.

‘Thrash me, be damned you had a cudgel . . .'

‘We both had single st . . .' Drinkwater never finished the sentence. Morris's fist cracked into his jaw and he fell backwards. His head hit the deck. Morris leapt on him but he was already unconscious.

Morris stood up. Revenge was sweet indeed but he had not yet finished with Drinkwater. No, a more private and infinitely more malevolent fate would be visited on him, but for the present Morris was content . . . he had at least re-established his superiority over the bastard.

Morris dusted himself off and turned to the other midshipmen.

‘Now you other, bastards. Remember ye'll get the same treatment if you cross me.'

Cranston had not moved but remained seated, his grog in his hand. He brought the patient wisdom of the lower deck to confound Morris.

‘Are you threatening me, Mr Morris?' he asked in level tones, ‘because if you are I shall report you to the first lieutenant. Your attack on Mr Drinkwater was unprovoked and constituted an offence for which you would flog a common seaman. I sincerely hope you have not fatally injured our young friend, for if you have I shall ensure you pay the utmost penalty the Articles of War permit.'

Morris grew as pallid as
Cyclops
's topsail. Such a long speech from a normally silent man delivered with such sonorous gravity gripped him with visceral fear. He looked anxiously at the prostrate Drinkwater.

Cranston turned to one of the other occupants of the mess. ‘Mr Bennett, be so good as to cut along for the surgeon!'

‘Yes, yes, of course . . .' The boy dashed out.

Morris stepped towards Drinkwater but Cranston forestalled him. ‘Get out!' he snapped with unfeigned anger.

Appleby entered the midshipmen's berth with a worried Bennett behind him. Cranston was already chafing the unconscious midshipman's wrists.

Appleby felt the pulse, ‘What occurred?' he enquired.

Cranston outlined the circumstances. Appleby lifted the eyelid.

‘Mmmmmm . . . lend a hand . . .' Between them they got Drinkwater propped up and the latter held some smelling salts under the patient's nose.

Drinkwater groaned and Appleby felt around the base of the skull. ‘He'll have a headache but he'll mend.' Another groan escaped Drinkwater's lips and his eyelids fluttered open, closed and opened again.

‘Oh God, what the . . .'

‘Easy, lad, easy. You've received a crack on the skull and another on the jaw but you'll live. You midshipmen get him into his hammock for a little while. You'll bear witness to this?' The last remark was addressed to Cranston.

‘Aye if it's necessary,' answered Cranston.

‘I shall have to inform the First Lieutenant. It will remain to be seen whether the matter goes further.' Appleby picked up his bag and left.

Devaux regarded the matter seriously. He was already aware of some doubt as to the exact nature of Midshipman Morris's sexual proclivities and, though he was ignorant as to the extent Morris exerted an influence over certain elements of the ship's company, he realised the man was a danger. With the prevalent sullen atmosphere on board it only needed some stupid incident like this to provoke more trouble. With the rapidity of a bush fire one such outbreak led to another and it was impossible to hush such things up. The unpunished breach of discipline in the midshipman's mess might lead to God knew what horrors. He sought an interview with Captain Hope.

He found Hope more concerned with their landfall on the coast of the Carolinas than with the future of Mr Midshipman Augustus Morris.

‘Do as you think fit, Mr Devaux,' he said without looking up from the chart, ‘now I pray your attention on this chart . . .' For a few moments the two men studied the soundings and coastline.

‘What exactly is our purpose in making a landfall here, sir?' asked Devaux at last.

Hope looked up at him. ‘I suppose you had better be aware of the details of this mission since any mishap to myself necessitates the duty devolving upon yourself . . . we are to make a landing here . . .' Hope pointed to the chart.

‘We will rendezvous with a detachment of troops at Fort Frederic, probably the British Legion, a provincial corps under Colonel Tarleton. An accredited officer will accept the package in my strong box. In the package are several millions of Continental dollars . . .'

Devaux whistled.

‘The Continental Congress,' Hope continued, ‘has already debased the credit of its own currency to such a state that the flooding of the markets of rebel areas will ruin all credibility in its own ability to govern, and bring large numbers of the Yankees over to the Loyalist cause. I believe large raids are planned on the Virginny tobacco lands to further ruin the rebel economy.'

‘I see, sir,' mused Devaux. The two men considered the matter, then the younger said, ‘It does seem a deucedly odd way of suppressing rebellion, sir.'

‘It does indeed, Mr Devaux, decidedly odd. But my Lord
George Germaine, His Majesty's Secretary for the Colonies, seems to be of the opinion that it is infallible.'

‘Ha Germaine!' snorted the indignant Devaux. ‘Let's hope he exercises better judgement than at Minden.'

Hope said nothing. At his age youthful contempt was an expenditure of energy that was entirely fruitless. He took refuge in silent cynicism. Germaine, North, Sandwich, Arbuthnot and Clinton, the naval and military commanders in North America, they were all God's appointed . . .

‘Thank you Mr Devaux.'

‘Thank you, sir,' replied Devaux picking up his hat and leaving the cabin.

Morris was below when the first lieutenant summoned him. Ironically it was White who brought the message. Sensing no threat from the boy Morris swaggered out.

‘Sir?'

‘Ah, Mr Morris,' began Devaux considerately, ‘I understand there has been some difference of opinion between you and your messmates, is this so, sir?'

‘Well, er, yes as a matter of fact that is so, sir. But the matter is settled, sir.'

‘To your satisfaction I presume,' asked the first lieutenant, scarcely able to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘But not to mine.' Devaux looked hard at Morris. ‘Did you strike first?'

‘Well, sir, I, er . . .'

‘Did you, sir, did you?'

‘Yes, sir,' whispered Morris scarcely audible.

‘Were you provoked?'

Morris sensed a trap. He could not claim to have been provoked since Cranston would testify against him and that would further militate in his disfavour.

He contented himself with a sullen shrug.

‘Mr Morris you are a source of trouble on this ship and I ought to break you, never mind stretching your neck under the Twenty Ninth Article of War . . .' Morris's face paled and his breath drew in sharply. ‘But I shall arrange to transfer you to another ship when we rejoin the fleet. Do not attempt to obtain a berth aboard any ship of which I am first lieutenant or by God I'll have you thrown overboard. In the meantime
you will exert no influence in the cockpit, d'ye understand?'

Morris nodded.

‘Very well, and for now you will ascend the foretopgallant and remain there until I consider your presence on deck is again required.'

His Britannic Majesty's 36-gun frigate
Cyclops
was cleared for action, leaning to a stiff south westerly breeze, close hauled on the port tack. To windward the chase was desperately trying to escape. As yet no colours had broken out at her peak but the opinion current aboard
Cyclops
was that she was American.

She had the appearance of an Indiaman but cynics reminded their fellows that Captain Pearson had been compelled to surrender to Paul Jones in the
Bonhomme Richard
. She had been an Indiaman.

On his quarterdeck Hope silently prayed she would be a merchant ship. If so she would prove an easy prey. If she operated under letters of marque she might prove a tougher nut to crack. What was more important was that Hope wished his arrival on the coast to be secret. Whatever the chase turned out to be Hope wanted to secure her.

Devaux urged him to hoist French colours but Hope demurred. He had little liking for such deceptions and ordered British colours hoisted. After a while the chase brailed up his courses and broke out the American flag.

‘Ah there! He's going to accept battle. To your posts, gentlemen, this will be warm work. Do you likewise with the courses Mr Blackmore and take the topgallants off her . . .'

Shortened down for the ponderous manoeuvres of formal battle,
Cyclops
closed with her enemy. In the foretop Drinkwater peered under the leech of the fore-topsail.

There was something odd about the ship they were approaching.

‘Tregembo . . . clap your eyes on yon ship . . . do you notice anything peculiar . . . ?'

The Cornishman left his swivel and peered to where the enemy vessel lay to, seemingly awaiting the British frigate.

‘No zur . . . but wait there's siller at her rail no . . . it's gone now . . .' He straightened up scratching his head.

‘Did you see flashes of silver?'

‘Aye, zur, leastways I thought I did . . .'

Drinkwater looked aft. Cranston in the main-top waved at him and he waved back suddenly making his mind up. He swung himself over into the futtock shrouds.

On the quarterdeck he bumped into Morris who was now signal midshipman.

‘What the hell are you doing aft?' hissed Morris, ‘Get forrard to your station pig!' Drinkwater dodged round him and hovered at Hope's coat tails.

‘Sir! Sir!'

‘What the devil?' Hope and Devaux turned at the intrusion of their vigilant watch on the closing American.