An Eye of the Fleet

Chapter Fourteen The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men…

Daylight revealed Cyclops alone within the circle of her visible horizon. La Creole had given her the slip and Captain Hope was furious that her arrival on the coast would now be broadcast. He now had no alternative but to execute his orders as speedily as possible.

He waited impatiently for noon and Blackmore's meridian altitude. When the master had made his calculations he brought the answer to Hope. 'Our latitude is thirty-four degrees twelve minutes north, sir. That is,' he glanced at his slate, That is forty-three miles to the north of our landfall although we shall have to weather Frying Pan shoals.'

Hope nodded. 'Very well, make the necessary arrangements and be kind enough to attend me with the first lieutenant… and, er, Mr Blackmore, have young Drinkwater bring your charts down here.'

When the master reappeared with Devaux, Hope cordially invited them to sit. Drinkwater spread the charts out on the table between them.

'Ah hhmmm, Mr Drinkwater,' began Hope. 'The first lieutenant has informed me that it was you that let go the sheet anchor during the late action with La Creole?'

'Er, yes, sir. I was assisted by Tregembo, fore-topman, but I take full responsibility for the loss of the anchor…'

'Quite so, quite so…'

'If you'll permit me to observe, sir,' broke in Devaux, 'it may well have saved the ship.'

Hope looked up sharply. There was the smallest hint of reproach in Devaux's voice. But Hope had not the energy for anger, his glance caught Blackmore's. Barely perceptibly the old master shrugged his shoulders. Hope smiled to himself. Old men saw things differently…

'Quite so, Mr Devaux. Mr Drinkwater I wish to congratulate you on your initiative. It is a quality which you appear to possess in abundance. I shall do what I can for you and if I fail I am sure Mr Devaux will prompt me… in the meantime I would be delighted if you and Mr Cranston together with Lieutenant Wheeler, Mr Devaux and yourself, Master, would join me at dinner. Who will have the watch, Mr Devaux?'

'Lieutenant Skelton, sir.'

'Very well, we had better have Keene and of course no dinner aboard Cyclops would be complete without an after-dinner speaker in the shape of the surgeon. Please see to it… Now Mr Drinkwater, the charts…'

The men bent over the table, their bodies moving automatically to the motion of the frigate.

'Our destination,' began the captain, 'is the mouth of the Galuda River here, in Long Bay. As you observe there is a bar but within the river mouth there is a small fort: Fort Frederic. Our task is to enter the river, pass to the garrison such stores and munitions as they require and to hand a certain package to some sort of agent. The details of this are known to Mr Devaux and need not concern us here…' Hope paused and wiped his forehead. He resumed. 'When we close the coast we will send boats in ahead to sound the channel into the anchorage.'

Devaux and Blackmore nodded.

'To be on the safe side we will clear for action as we enter the river and put a spring on the cable when we anchor. I do not intend being here a moment longer than is absolutely necessary for I fear our late adversary will come looking for us with reinforcements.' Hope tapped the chart with the dividers.

'Any questions, gentlemen?'

Devaux cleared his throat. 'If I am not mistaken, sir, you are as apprehensive of this operation as I am…?' Hope said nothing, merely stared at the lieutenant.

'I mislike the whole thing, sir. It has a smell about it, I…'

'Mr Devaux,' bristled Hope, 'it is not part of your duties to question orders, I imagine their Lordships know their business.' Hope spoke with a conviction he was far from feeling, his own misgivings lending his voice an asperity that was over-severe.

But Devaux knew nothing of the circumstances of Hope's reception of his orders. To him Hope was no longer the man who had towed the Santa Teresa off the San Lucar shoal. The tedious weeks of patrol had wearied him, the worry over prize-money had worn him and he had learned from Wheeler how Hope and Blackmore had taken an abject refuge behind a steel hedge of bayonets in the recent fight. Devaux's reaction was jaundiced for he, too, had been subject to the same strains for similar reasons. But he saw Hope now as a timid old man, blindly obeying the orders dished up by a hated Tory cabal… he mastered his impatience with difficulty; events had conspired against him…

'With respect, sir, why send us to this remote spot to cripple the rebel economy with counterfeit bills?' Blackmore looked up with sudden interest and Drinkwater had the sense to remain absolutely motionless. Hope opened his mouth to protest but Devaux ploughed on. 'Why not get them through New York where Clinton's agents must have a clearing house? Or Virginny where the rebel wealth really comes from? Even New England is better than the Carolinas…'

'Mr Devaux! I must remind you that what I told you was in confidence… but since you lack the self control I had thought to be an attribute of your class I will explain, as much for your benefit as for these other gentlemen here… And I must ask you to treat the matter with confidence… The Carolinas are in Lord Cornwallis's hands, Mr Devaux. I assume the notes are for him. He is, I believe, extending operations under Major Ferguson into the back country where, I presume, the money is required. That is all gentlemen…'

Drinkwater left the captain with a profound sense of disquiet. He knew his presence had been an embarrassment to Captain Hope who might have dealt more sharply with the first lieutenant had the midshipman not been there. But there was more than the rift between captain and first lieutenant to set his mind working. The negro Achilles had been telling odd stories in the cockpit. Stories that did not tally with Hope's pat summary of the military situation in the Carolinas.

After some thought Drinkwater sought out Wheeler and consulted him. It was a breach of the captain's confidence in him but, under the circumstances that appeared to prevail ashore, he felt confident in so doing.

'Well, young shaver, we'd better go and have a word with your friend… what d'ye say he is… your servant?'

'He claims the right. Says I saved his life…'

'Get him to come up to the gunroom…'

They found Achilles to be an intelligent man who had been a plantation slave. When the British Military authorities offered freedom to any negroes who took up arms against the rebels, Achilles had forthwith escaped and promptly obtained his release from bondage. Soon obtaining a post as officer's servant to a lieutenant in the 23rd Foot he had been separated from his master at the battle of Camden and, by an evil fate, captured by the son of his former owner who was then a captain in the militia battalion that later embarked in La Creole.

His unique position, ready wit and intelligent powers of observation had made him a favourite with the officers of the 23rd and made him privy to many of their conversations. This had given him a reasonably accurate idea of the real military state of South Carolina. Wheeler set about extracting as much information as possible. He had little trouble since Achilles had a great love of the splendid scarlet soldiers and enjoyed their attention and amusement, contrasting their indolent disinterest with his former owner's ferocity.

'Yes, sah, dis war is no good, sah. Dere is not enuff ob de reg'lar sojers in de Carolinas, sah. Dat Major Ferguson, he dam' fine sojer, sah, but dey Tory milisha all dam' trash an' no more join afta Maj' Ferguson get kill up on dat ole King's Mount'n.'

Wheeler whistled. So the brilliant Patrick Ferguson was dead. The best shot in the British Army who had invented a breech loading rifle, who fenced with his left hand when he lost the use of his right at the Brandy wine, had been killed. The negro rolled his eyes dolorously.

'What about Lord Comwallis then, Achilles?'

'He dam' fine sojer too, sah! He lick dat Yankee rebel Gates and whip him proper at Camden. Gates he ride sixty mile after de battle, yeees sah! But poor Ach'lles, sah, Ah get the wrong side o' sum trees an' Ah run smack inta mah old boss's son who is mighty mad, cos he'm running from dey redcoats…'

'Yes, yes, Achilles, you've told us all that but what about his Lordship…?'

'He keep marchin',' replied the negro sitting bolt upright and making little swinging gestures with his arms, 'an' he keep fi'tin' but he nebber stop, so de officers ob the Twenty Third, they say he nebber win nuffin'.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, sah. Afta Gen'ral Gates gone back to dam' Congress wiv his lil' old tail hangin' 'tween his legs they send Gen'ral Greene down an' Gen'ral Greene he wun dam' fine sojer too, eben s'posin' he a rebel 'cos all de officers of de Twenty Third say so, sah!' Achilles was defensive, as if in admiring Greene he be thought to sympathise with the rebels. Then a puzzled look came over his face.

'Ah don' rightly unnerstand but dat Genr'l Greene he jus' don' know when he' beat. He fight, then he run, then he fight an' run agen… but he jus' don' get beat…' Achilles shook his head in incomprehension, his eyes rolling expressively.

'Ma Lord Cornwallis he send dat Lord Rawdon here an' dere, an' he send dat Co'nel Tarleton here and dere and dem two fine sojers dey charge up an' down the swamp lands tryin' for to catch de Swamp Fox an' de Gamecock…'

'The what?' queried Wheeler grinning in spite of himself.

'Dey de names of de rebel raiders, sah. Dam' clebber men. Dey say dey look jus' like trees all de time. Dey nearly get caught by Tarleton one, two time but always dey 'scape. Maybe dey nobody,' Achilles hinted darkly, '…Maybe dey voodoo…' Again Achilles shook his head and rolled his eyes.

'De war no good for us Loy'lists, sah. De reg'lar loy'lists fight like wild cats, sah. De reg'lar redcoat sojers dey fight better'n any dam' Yankees but dere jus' ain't enuff, sah. Dat's all, sah. Ach'lles tell you truth, sah. Ebbery word. I hear all de officers say dis, plenty times, sah, and de Twenty Third one dam' fine corp' of fine fuzileer, sah.'

Despite the seriousness of his news Wheeler could not stifle his laughter at the negro. At the end of his monologue Achilles had risen to his feet and come stiffly to attention to give due importance to the mention of His Majesty's Royal Welch Fusileers. Regrettably this zealous action had ended in sharp contact with the overhead deckbeams which were too low to accommodate the negro at full height. His swift reduction to a crouching position caused Wheeler and Drinkwater to burst out laughing.

'Very well, Achilles. And what about you… you may volunteer for service in the navy…'

'Don' know nuffin' 'bout no navy, sah,' said Achilles with feeling rubbing his bruised head… 'Achilles dam' fine servant, sah…'

'Well in that case I think you had better attend to me…'

'Ach'lles dis gennelman's servant, sah.' He indicated Drinkwater loyally.

Wheeler looked at Drinkwater. 'I don't know what the Hon. John will say to that, cully… I should get him appointed a messman…'

Wheeler took the news to Devaux who snorted with exasperation when he heard it.

'Young Nat was pretty perceptive to realise the significance of the nigger's intelligence.'

'Not really,' said the first lieutenant, still angry with Hope. He tossed off a tankard of flip and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. 'He was in the cabin when the Old Man re… oh, dammit, when I blew up and revealed all… still perhaps it's an ill wind. At least my suspicions are confirmed…'

'What'll we do?' Devaux thought for a bit then poured another tankard of flip.

'Listen, Wheeler, I'll raise it conversationally at dinner tonight. Do you back me up…'

It was inconceivable that the mission should not come up during the meal as the prime subject of conversation. The poor quality of the food served to remind them all that they had been pitched across the North Atlantic with insufficient provisions for a prolonged stay on the coast. Indeed it was Hope who broached the subject in general terms, explaining their presence off the Carolinas.

'I still don't see why they had to send a frigate to this desolate destination of ours. It doesn't make military, naval or any other kind of sense to me,' opined Devaux cautiously, seeking to channel the drift of talk. But Appleby sensing an opening for more expansive dialogue beat Hope to the breach. Drinkwater sat open mouthed at the pedagogic delivery of the surgeon.

'If you will permit me, gentlemen, to offer an opinion on your preoccupation…' Devaux sighed resignedly and Hope could scarcely suppress a smile. 'Your naivety does you great credit, Mr Devaux…' Devaux protested. 'Nay, hear me out, I beg. It seems to me, and with all due respect to Captain Hope, that this operation of ours is a political expedient not a military or naval exercise and therefore, if I may say so, not so readily comprehensible to you gallant gentlemen of the sword…'

Well, well, thought Hope. Either Appleby was psychic or omniscient.

'Imagine, messieurs, it was obviously conceived by a politician, who else has been passing Coercive Acts and playing at warfare with Parliamentary statutes? Why politicians! Milords North and Germaine hatched this one up! Germaine probably told North this was the very thing to do. Wouldn't cost much. Print a few million notes, ruin the rebel economy, bring Congress to its knees. No need for more troops, no credit to general officers or admirals but… and here's the beauty of it… brilliant stroke by Milordships!'

There was a rumble of appreciation from the officers assembled round the table and lounging back in their chairs.

'You perceive the outline, gentlemen. The idea hatched by a man cashiered for cowardice after Minden but with a skin as thick as hide… and a changed name to hide under.'

'Sackville by God!' exclaimed Wheeler, ignoring Appleby's pun. 'I had clean forgot. Didn't the King himself strike Sackville off the Army list with an injunction that he was never to serve again in a military capacity?'

'Exactly so, my dear sir, the late king certainly did. And what is this creature now? Why none other than the virtual director of military operations in the Americas, a continent of which he knows nothing. Barré does, but the Government ignores the good colonel. Burke and Foe and Chatham realised, but nobody took any heed of them. So here we are!' Appleby expelled his breath contentedly looking round as if expecting applause.

'You are not quite right about Germaine, Mr Appleby.' Appleby frowned and looked round to see who dared to contradict him. It was Cranston.

'I beg your pardon?' he said archly.

'Lord George Germaine might well be exactly what you say but he has as his Secretary an American Loyalist who is reckoned to be an expert in several fields. His name is Benjamin Thompson.'

'Pah!' retorted Appleby. 'Thompson is his catamite!' Drinkwater had not the slightest notion what a catamite was except that it was clearly something suspect for sniggers and grins appeared on several faces.

'I think, Mr Appleby, that Cranston has a point,' Hope spoke with quiet authority but Appleby was not to be gainsaid.

'I disagree sir.'

'So do I sir. The facts alone speak for themselves. Surely Thompson, if he is the genius he claims to be, knows far more damage can be done the rebels by us arriving off Charleston or New York?' Devaux tried again to manipulate the conversation's direction.

'Ah! There's the rub don't you see,' plunged in Appleby once again. 'Germaine turns to Thompson. "Damme Benjamin,"' he mimicked Germaine's reputedly haughty tones, '"I don't like Clinton, irresolute little fella and that damned traitor Arnold's in his suite, probably playing a double game. Best not send the cash there." Germaine turns to map: "Where shall we send it then Benjamin? To Cornwallis, damme never liked his wall-eyes, or his second, young Rawdon, or that dammed know-all Ferguson…"'

'Ferguson's dead,' Wheeler intoned flatly.

Appleby raised his eyebrows imploringly heaven-ward at the interruption.

'"… no, no that won't do at all, Benjamin. Bring that map nearer; now which bit is Carolina? Ah yes, well how about there!"' Eyes closed Appleby stabbed the damask table cloth with his finger, then opened them and looked down at the imaginary map. '"That will do fine, Benjamin, see to it for it is now five of the clock and I must to the tables for an hour or two's relaxation…" Picks up hat, exeunt.' Appleby sat back at last, smirked and folded his hands across his stomach.

Several officers clapped languidly. They all smiled smugly with the generous contempt sailors reserve for politicians… after all, the smiles seemed to say, what does one expect…

Hope clearly had to dispel such thoughts from the minds of his men. It was an attitude that begot carelessness.

'I find your assessment amusing Mr Appleby, but inaccurate. That Cyclops had been ordered to carry out a part which to us seems incomprehensible is scarcely a new situation in naval war. The whole essence of the naval service is an adherence to orders without which nothing can be achieved…'

'Sir,' said Devaux slowly and deliberately, 'Lieutenant Wheeler has interrogated the negro who surrendered from La Creole. The blackamoor informs us that the Carolinas are in a state of utter confusion with no man knowing who has the upper hand. Lord Cornwallis has insufficient troops to do more than hold a few posts and chase the rebels.'

It was enough for Hope. 'Mr Devaux,' he almost shouted, 'what do you expect a damn nigger to say — he's a rebel. D'ye think he's going to tell us we're winning…?'

But Devaux was equally flushed. 'For God's sake hear me out, sir,' he altercated, 'in the first place he's Loyalist with papers to prove it, and that's no mean achievement considering he's been with the rebels, in the second he's a slave freed by ourselves so hardly likely to sympathise with the rebels and voluntarily submit to slavery, and in the third he's been batman to a lietitenant in the 23rd Foot.'

'And I suppose,' replied Hope sarcastically, 'that you consider all that cast iron proof that every word is true…?' He was really, deeply angry now. Angry with Devaux and Appleby for voicing the doubts in his own heart, angry with himself for submitting so tamely to the blandishments of Edgecumbe and the £4,000 prize money which was not one whit the more use to him on this side of the ocean, and angry with the whole system that had created this ridiculous situation.

'Time will tell, sir, which of us is right…'

'That's as maybe, mister, but it will not stop us all doing our duty,' the captain looked meaningfully round the assembled officers. Their averted gazes and embarrassed complexions further angered him.

He rose and the officers scrambled to their feet. 'You, Mr Devaux, may take such measures as you see fit in the way of precaution. Good night, gentlemen!'

A screech of chairs and buzz of retreat accompanied the departure of the officers. Devaux's words rang in his ears:

'Time will tell, sir, which of us is right…'

The trouble was Hope already knew…

Drinkwater left the dinner with the uncomfortable feeling that he had witnessed something he should not have done. He had hitherto considered Hope's position as unassailable and was shocked by Devaux's outspoken attack. In addition he was surprised at the giggling of some of the dinner guests, particularly Devaux and Wheeler, who seemed in some curious way pleased with what they had achieved. But perhaps it was the face of Blackmore that he remembered most. The old man's white hair was drawn severely back and his face passed the midshipman like a kind of fixed figurehead. The expression it bore as it passed Wheeler and Devaux was one of utter contempt.

Drinkwater followed Cranston below. In the shadows of the orlop an arm reached out and grabbed his elbow. His exclamation was silenced by a face with a commanding finger held to its barely visible lips. It was Sharples.

'What do you want?' whispered Drinkwater, unable to shake off the foreboding engendered by the recent conversation. Somehow the appearance of Sharples, whom he had ignored for months now, came as no surprise.

'Beg pardon, sir. You ought to know I believe Threddle and Mr Morris are hatching something up, sir. Thought you ought to know, sir…' Drinkwater felt his arm released and Sharples melted away in the shadows…

Drinkwater entered the cockpit.

'So you are back from your dinner at the captain's table, eh?'

Morris's voice was loaded with venom. At first Drinkwater did not reply. Then, aware that Cranston was still in the mess he decided to bait his enemy.

'Tell me Morris, why do you hate me?'

'Because, lickspittle, you are less than a dog's turd, yet you have been a source of trouble for me ever since you came aboard this ship. You are an insufferable little bastard…'

Drinkwater's fists clenched and he shot a look at Cranston. The older man was disinterestedly climbing into his hammock. 'I'll call on you for satisfaction when we get to New York for that remark…'

'Ah! But not now, eh? Not so bloody bold without a cudgel are you? Bit more careful of our pretty face since we got that little whore in Falmouth aren't we, or is it because you're keeping company with the officers now, Wheeler's quite a dandy-boy now isn't he…' Drinkwater paled at the allusion to Elizabeth but he held his rage. He saw Cranston, sitting up in his hammock, making negative motions with his hands. Morris was working himself up into a violent rage, a torrent of invective streaming from him in which he worked through every obscenity known to his fertile and warped imagination. Drinkwater grabbed his boat cloak and went on deck…

'Why don't you shut your filthy mouth, Morris?' asked Cranston from the shadows.

But Morris did not hear Cranston. Hatred, blind and unreasoning hatred, burned in his heart with the intensity of fever. There could be no justification for such bitter emotion any more than there was explanation for love. Morris only knew that from thwarted purpose Drinkwater had come to represent all that had dogged Morris's career: ability, charm, affability and a way of inspiring loyalty in others, qualities in which he was lacking.

Morris was a victim of himself: of his own jealousy, of his sexuality and its concomitants. Perhaps it was the onset of disease that upset his mental balance or perhaps the bitter fruits of a warped and twisted passion; a frustrated love that suffered already the convolutions of self-torture by its very perversity.