An Eye of the Fleet

Chapter Sixteen The Cutting Out

If the remnants of the landing party expected rest after their labours they were to be disappointed. After a bare three hours exhausted sleep several found themselves rowing a guard-boat cautiously down stream to prevent a surprise attack by La Creole or her boats. Hope was especially concerned since he had seen the enemy stand southwards.

Although he could not know it La Creole had missed Cyclops in her search, but the last of the onshore breeze the next afternoon brought her back. An hour before sunset she had anchored on the bar. There was no longer any doubt that she had found her quarry.

The twenty-four hours that had elapsed since the return of the landing party had proved tiring and trying for all. Without exception the members of the expedition had about them the smell of defeat and their low morale affected the remaining men. The immediate failure of the mission was forgotten in the urgent necessity of alleviating the sufferings of the wounded and preparing the frigate for sea. The topgallant masts were re-hoisted and the upper yards crossed. It may well have been this that discovered her to La Creole but no one now cared. Action was infinitely preferable to lying supinely in the stinking jungle-surrounded Galuda a moment more than was necessary. Appleby and his mates worked harder than anyone else, patching up the walking wounded so that they might man their guns again, or easing the sufferings of the badly wounded with laudanum.

The time passed for Drinkwater in a daze. Outwardly he carried out his duties with his customary efficiency. When the roll was called he answered for Sharples having been killed at the mill.

When Threddle's name was called his mouth clamped shut. His eyes swivelled to Morris. The enigmatic smile still played around the mouth of his adversary but Morris said nothing.

Strain and fatigue continued to play havoc with Drinkwater's nerves as the day wore on until, when the news of the arrival of La Creole on the bar spread rapidly through the ship, he seemed to emerge from a tunnel. He had found his second wind. Morris was just Morris, an evil to be endured, Achilles had been a brief and colourful intrusion into his life and was so no more; Cranston was dead, just that, dead; and Threddle… Threddle was discharged dead too, killed in action at the mill… or so the ship's books said…

It was only when he received the summons to attend the Captain, however, that his mind received the final jerk that returned him to sanity. As he entered the cabin in company with all the other officers he found himself standing next to Morris. It came to him then, the awful truth, the fact that his numbed mind had automatically excluded in its pain…

Sharples had not died in action. Sharples had been shot down in cold blood under the cover of action. And the man next to him had done it…

'Well, gentlemen…' Hope looked round the ring of tired yet expectant faces. They were all here. The welcome features of Devaux and Wheeler, the careworn, lined face of old Blackmore, the younger Keene and youthful Skelton. Behind the commissioned officers the mature warrant officers; the gunner, the bosun and the carpenter, and the eager yet apprehensive faces of his midshipmen and master's mates.

'Well gentlemen, it seems our friend has returned, I suspect with reinforcements. I imagine he will attempt a cutting out so I am not intending to warp the ship round. If we see La Creole approaching then we shall have to do so and for that eventuality the spring is already rigged, but I do not foresee this. The wind during the night will be offshore and therefore favour an attack by boats. I have a mind to bait a trap and for that purpose have summoned you all here… Moonset is about two o'clock. We may, therefore, expect his boats soon after in order that, having taken us,' here Hope looked round and swept what he believed to be a sardonically inspiring grin around the company, '…he may carry the terral to sea…'

A little shuffle among the officers indicated a stirring of interest.

Hope breathed a silent sigh of relief. 'Now, gentlemen, this is what I intend that we should do…'

Cyclops settled down to await the expected attack. The hands had been fed and the galley fire extinguished. The men had been told off to their stations and the most elaborate dispositions made. Apart from a watch the hands were, for the time being, ordered to rest on their arms.

Anxious to stimulate the morale of his crew Hope had accepted several suggestions for improvisation in the frigate's defence. Of these the best had been suggested by Wheeler. Cyclops's two largest boats were hoisted by the yardarm tackles fitted to the extremities of the fore and main yards. By this means the boats were slung outboard of, and higher than, the frigate's sides. In each boat a party of the ship's best marksmen lay hidden, awaiting the order to open fire upon the anticipated boarders as they scrambled up Cyclops's sides.

The lower deck gunports were all secured and the hands issued with small arms.

An hour after moonset the faint chuckle of water under a boat's bow was heard from downstream. Peering intently from the stern cabin windows Devaux touched Hope's arm.

'Here they come, sir,' he whispered. He turned to pass word forward but Hope held him back. 'Good luck Mr Devaux…' Hope's voice cracked with age and emotion. Devaux smiled in the darkness. 'Good luck to you, sir,' he replied warmly.

The first lieutenant slipped through into the gun-deck, passing a whispered warning to the men stationed there. Emerging on to the upper deck he ordered the men to lie down. In a crouching position he moved up one side and down the other. At each post he found the men waiting eagerly.

Drinkwater was one of the party waiting in the forward gun-deck. Commanded by Lieutenant Skelton their task was to counter attack once the enemy had boarded in the manner that had been so successfully used in the previous action. Up on the fo'c's'le O'Malley, the Irish cook, scraped a melancholy air on his fiddle and several men sang quietly or chatted in low voices as might be expected from a casually maintained anchor watch…

The boats came alongside at several points. Faint grunts and bumps told where they secured. Devaux waited. A hand reached over the rail and grasped the hammock netting, another followed. One groped upwards and a moment later a knife was sawing through the boarding netting, another followed. Another hand came over the opposite rail. It was followed by a head.

'Now!' bellowed Devaux, expelling his pent up breath in one mighty roar that was taken up by the waiting seamen. The tension burst from them in smoke, flame and destruction. Fifty or sixty twelve-pound cannon balls were dropped overside to plummet down through the bottoms of La Creole's boats. From her own boats, suspended high above, Cyclops's marksmen opened a lethal fire on the invaders. This desperate refinement quickly cleared the frigate's sides.

From the deck too a withering fire was poured down at the hapless privateersmen now struggling in the river…

Aft the attacks had been driven off with similar success. Hope looked round. He was suddenly aware that his ship was swinging, her head falling off from pointing up river. Someone forward had cut Cyclops's cable and instinct prompted Hope to stare over the stern, searching in the darkness for the spring. Shouting anxiously for Blackmore to get sail on the ship he sprung himself for the wheel in case the spring parted and the ship was in danger of going aground.

Forward the rebels had had more success than the mere severing of the frigate's cable. Having driven a boat in under Cyclops's figurehead where access was comparatively easy via the bowsprit rigging and the foretack bumpkins, twenty or thirty men had gained access to the deck under an enterprising officer and a fierce hand to hand engagement now took place. Several of the privateersmen were engaged in turning one of the bow chasers inboard along the length of Cyclops.

The situation became critical and Devaux shouted for Skelton's reserve.

Hearing the shouts and screams from above Lieutenant Skelton was already on his way, leading the counter attackers out of the Stygian gloom of the gun-deck. Behind him Drinkwater drew his dirk and followed.

On the fo'c's'le the French privateer officer was achieving a measure of success. His men had swung the starboard bow chaser round and were preparing to fire it. He was determined to destroy the British frigate if he could not take her. If he could force her aground and fire her… already she was head downstream… it occurred to him that she should be broadside on…

He turned to shout orders to two men remaining in the boat to bring combustibles on board, then he swung round to rally his men for a final attempt to secure the upper deck in the wake of the bow chaser's discharge.

A British lieutenant appeared in front of him leading a fresh body of men that had appeared from nowhere. The lieutenant slashed at the Frenchman but before Skelton's blade even started its downward path the latter executed a swift and fatal lunge.

'Hélas!' he shouted. Skelton reeled backwards carrying with him two seamen coming up behind. The French officer's eyes gleamed in triumph and he turned to order his men to discharge the cannon.

'Tirez!' A thin youth confronted him. The Frenchman grinned maliciously at the dirk his opponent held. He extended his sword arm. Drinkwater waited for the lunge but the other recovered and the two stood for a second eyeing each other. The Frenchman's experience weighed the midshipman… he lunged.

Skelton's blood flowed freely across the deck. The French officer slipped as Drinkwater half turned to avoid the blade. The sword point, raised involuntarily by his opponent's loss of balance, caught his cheek and ripped upwards, deflected out of the flesh by the cheekbone. Drinkwater had gone icy cold in that heart-beat of suspension, he already knew he had his man as his fencer's instinct told him the other was losing his balance. Now the sting of the wound unleashed a sudden fury in him. He stabbed blindly and savagely, giving the thrust impetus by the full weight of his body. The dirk passed under the man's biceps and buried itself in his shoulder, piercing the right lung. The Frenchman staggered back, recovering his balance too late, dropping his sword, blood pouring from his wound.

Drinkwater flung away the dirk and grabbed the fallen sword. It leapt in his hand, balanced exquisitely on the lower phalange of his forefinger. He threw himself into the fight screaming encouragement to the seamen struggling for possession of the deck.

In twenty minutes it was over. By then Cyclops had brought up to her spring and Drinkwater, the only officer left standing forward was joined by Devaux and they began securing the prisoners…

Instead of travelling slowly downstream beam on, the frigate's spring had the effect of re-anchoring her by the stern since it was led out of an after gunport and secured to the anchor cable below the cut. This fortuitous circumstance permitted Hope to set the topsails so that the vessel strained at her anchor as the sails bellied out to the terral.

Drinkwater hurried aft touching his forehead.

'All the boarders secured, sir, what orders?'

Hope looked astern. He could make out the splashes of men struggling in the water and the taut spring rising dripping with water from the tension on it.

Devaux hurried up. 'Get those boats cut down and you, Drinkwater, get the spring cut…'

The two ran off. 'Mr Blackmore!'

'Sir?'

'Take the conn, have a man in the chains and a quartermaster back at the wheel. Pass word to the leadsman that I want the soundings quietly.' Hope emphasised the last word as Keene came up. 'Work round the deck Mr Keene, not a word from anyone… anyone, do you understand?'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater ran up again. 'Spring cut, sir,' he reported.

'Well done, Mister.' Hope rubbed his hands gleefully, like a schoolboy contemplating a prank. 'I'm going out after that fella, Mister Drinkwater,' he confided, pointing ahead to somewhere in the darkness where La Creole awaited them. 'She'll be expecting us under her cutting out party — we'll give 'em a surprise, eh cully?' Hope grinned.

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'Now run off and find Devaux and tell him to man the starboard battery and have topmen aloft… oh, and men at the braces…' Drinkwater ran off with his message.

Blackmore was letting the wind and current take the frigate downstream, trusting that the run of water would serve her best. As the ship cleared the wooded headlands he adjusted the course and trimmed the yards. Drinkwater was ordered forward to keep a lookout for La Creole.

He strained his eyes into the night. Small circles danced in his vision. He elevated his glance a little from the horizon and immediately, on the periphery of his retina a darker spot appeared to starboard. He clapped the battered glass to this eye.

It was La Creole and at anchor too!

He raced aft: 'She's two points to starboard, sir, and at anchor!'

'Very well, Mr Drinkwater:' then to Blackmore, 'starboard a point.'

Blackmore's voice answered, 'Starboard a point, sir. By my reckoning you are just clear of the bar…'

'Very well. Mr Drinkwater, get a cable on the second bower!'

Cyclops slipped seawards. La Creole was just visible against the false dawn. Hope intended to cross La Creole's stern, rake her and put his helm down. As he turned to starboard and ran alongside the enemy ship he would anchor. It was his last anchor, except for the light kedge and it was a gamble. He explained to his principal officers what he intended…

Drinkwater found two bosun's mates and a party of tired seamen hauling an eight-inch rope up to the ring on the second bower. The two ships were closing fast.

'Hurry it up there,' he hissed between clenched teeth. The men looked up at him sullenly. After what seemed an interminable delay the cable was secured.

Returning to report the anchor ready Drinkwater passed the prisoners. In the haste they had been trussed up to the foremast bitts and a sudden thought occurred to him. If these men shouted a warning, Cyclops's advantage would be lost. Then another idea came to him.

He ordered the marine sentries to herd them below, all of them except the French officer who lay groaning on the deck. Drinkwater still had the man's sword in his hand. He cut the rope securing the man to the bitts.

'Up mister!' he ordered.

'Merde,' growled the man.

Drinkwater pointed the sword at his throat: 'Up!'

The man rose reluctantly to his feet, swaying with dizziness. The midshipman prodded him aft, he ordered the last marine to go below to slit the throat of the first man that so much as squealed. Afterwards his own ruthless barbarity surprised him but at the time it seemed the only logical thing to do under the uncompromising prompting of a desire to survive.

He arrived on the quarterdeck. 'What the devil?' queried a startled Hope, to be reassured by a sight of his own midshipman, a drawn sword in his hand, behind the Frenchman.

'Anchor's ready, sir. I thought this fella would help allay any suspicions, sir. Shout to the enemy, sir, tell 'em the ship's his…'

'An excellent idea Drinkwater. Speaks English, eh? Must do with that polyglot rebel crew. Probably uses French with his commander. Prick him a little, sir,' said the captain.

The man jerked. Hope addressed him in English, his voice uncharacteristically sinister and brutal:

'Now you dog. I have an old score to settle with your race. My brother and my sister's husband died in Canada and I've an un-Christian hankering for revenge. You tell your commander that this ship is yours and you'll anchor under his lee. No tricks now, I've the best surgeon in the fleet and he'll see to you, you've my word on that but,' here Hope looked significantly at Drinkwater and paused, 'but one false word and it's your last. D'ye understand, canaille?'

The man winced again. 'Oui,' he nodded, breathing through clenched teeth. Drinkwater shoved him to the main chains. Hope turned away.

'Pass the word to Mr Devaux to have the gun crews stand by. On the command I want the ports opened and the guns run straight out and fired.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' a messenger ran off.

Cyclops was less than one hundred yards off La Creole now, crossing her stern from starboard to larboard. A hail came from the big privateer.

'Very well, Mr Drinkwater, prompt our friend.'

The Frenchman drew a breath.

'Ça va bien! Je suis blessé, mais la frégate est prise!'

A voice replied across the diminishing gap between the two ships. 'Bravo mon ami! Mais votre blessure?'

The French officer shot a glance at Drinkwater and took a deep breath.

'Affreuse! A la gorge!' There was a moment's silence then a puzzled voice:

'La gorge?… Mon Dieu!' A shout of realisation came from La Creole.

Hope swore and the Frenchman, his left hand to his chest where his punctured lung gave him great pain, turned triumphantly to Drinkwater. But the midshipman could not kill him in cold blood, indeed he only half comprehended what had transpired…

But events now moved in rapid succession so that Drinkwater's dilemma was short lived. The French officer slumped to the deck in a faint as La Creole's people ran to their guns. A gust of wind filled Cyclops's topsails so that she accelerated a little and suddenly the privateer's stern was drawing abeam.

'Now Devaux! Now by God!'

The ports opened, there was a terrible squealing rumble as the starboard battery of twelve-pounders were run out. Then the concussion of the broadside overwhelmed them all, rocking the frigate. In the darkness of the gun-deck Keene and Devaux were leaping up and down with excitement and a fighting madness. They had double shotted the guns and topped off the charges with canister. The devastation thus inflicted upon La Creole almost destroyed her resistance at a blow. As the guns recoiled inboard Cyclops swung to starboard. Her impetus carried her alongside La Creole and a further broadside smashed into the ex-Indiaman's hull. A few bold souls aboard the American fired back and the engagement became general, though all the advantage lay with the British.

Drawing a little ahead Cyclops lost way. Her anchor was let go and her sails clewed up. Veering the cable Cyclops settled back and brought up on La Creole's larboard quarter.

For twenty dreadful minutes the British poured shot after shot into her. Aboard the American ship men died bravely. They got eight guns into action and inflicted some damage on their opponent but in the end, lying in his own gore, his ship and crew a shambles around him, the French commander ordered his ensign struck and an American officer complied.

The pale light of dawn revealed to Hope the limp bunting lying across the jagged remnants of what had once been a handsome carved taffrail and he ordered his cannon to cease fire…

Later in the morning Drinkwater accompanied his commander aboard the enemy's ship. Captain Hope did not consider her worth taking as a prize. His depleted crew were barely enough to guard the prisoners and work Cyclops. The rebel ship had been old when the Americans commissioned her and the damage that she suffered at the hands of Cyclops's gun crews had been frightful.

Drinkwater gaped at the desolation caused by the frigate's broadsides. The planking of her decks was ripped up, furrowed by ball and canister into jagged lines of splinters reminiscent of a field of petrified grass. Several beams sagged down into the spaces below and cannon were knocked clean off their carriages. Trunnions had been sheered and three had had their cascabels cut off as if with a knife. Scattered about all this destruction were petty items of personal gear. A man's stocking hat, a shoe, a crucifix and rosary beads, a clasp knife and a beautifully painted chest split to fragments…

Grimmer remains of what had once been men lay in unseemly attitudes and splashes of vivid colour. Dried blood was dark beside the ochreous pools of vomit, the stark white of exposed bone, the blue of bled flesh and the greens and browns of intestines. It was a vile sight and the hollow eyes of the surviving members of the crew regarded the British captain with a dull hatred as the author of their fate. But Hope, with the simple faith of the dedicated warrior, returned their gaze with scorn. For these men were nothing but legalised pirates, plundering for profit, destroying merchant ships for gain, and visiting upon innocent seamen a callous indifference to their fates.

The captain ordered out of her such stores as might serve the frigate and had combustibles prepared to fire her. Lieutenant Keene boarded La Creole at sunset to ignite her. As the offshore terral began to blow seawards Cyclops weighed her anchor. La Creole burned furiously, a black pall rolling seawards away from the coast of that benighted land.

Cyclops was standing well off shore when La Creole's magazine exploded. An hour later she altered course for Cape Hatteras and New York.