An Eye of the Fleet

Chapter Seventeen Decision at the Virginia Capes

The weather was once more against them. Off the dreaded Cape they met a gale of unbelievable ferocity which tried the gear severely. The main topgallant mast went by the board and took with it the fore and mizen topgallants. During this blow the wounded were, of course, confined below. The cockpit was a scene of utter degradation. The filth in the bilge was augmented by the water made by the straining frigate as she laboured in the seaway and the whole slopped about the bottom of the ship, driving the rodent population higher. The rats ran almost unchecked over the bodies of the dying who retched and urinated without relief. For die they did. Scarce a man who received anything more trivial than a scratch escaped gangrene or blood poisoning of one kind or another.

Drinkwater was one of the fortunate few. His cut, a superficial one, was disfiguring rather than dangerous. Appleby sutured it for him, an Appleby who had lost much rotundity and whose pitifully few medicines were exhausted as he fought disease and sepsis with his own diminishing energies. At last, utterly worn with fatigue and exasperation he wept angry and frustrated tears in the darkness of his hellish kingdom.

Hope buried the bundles in their hammocks. Six one day, nine another as the wind howled, the frigate bucked and the spray drove inboard in hissing sheets. The burial service became curtailed into the briefest formality.

Although the weather was poor it allowed Cyclops to limp north undetected. For she was in no condition to fight. In addition to the heavy losses incurred at the Galuda River the ship's company now had to subsist on rotten stores. Opening the last casks of salt provisions Copping, the purser, had discovered the usually tainted pork was uneatably putrid and the misery of Cyclops's company immeasurably increased.

At last she made her number to the guardship at Sandy Hook and, in company with the members of the North American Squadron, let go her anchor in the Hudson River.

For the last months of effective British rule in any part of her thirteen colonies, His Britannic Majesty's frigate Cyclops lay passive. Arriving at New York on the last day of April 1781 she lay in the mouth of the Hudson without positive orders beyond the general directive to effect repairs to her fabric.

Admiral Arbuthnot did not appear to take a great interest in her arrival as she was not on the establishment of the North American Station. Indeed he seemed rather offended that she should make her appearance anywhere in his command without his receiving prior notice, and visited his displeasure on Captain Hope whom he greeted with icy politeness.

Secretly angry that he had ended up between two stools, Hope claimed his mission had been confidential but, when challenged as to its success, was compelled to report failure. His explanation was received with disbelief, the Admiral firmly maintaining the Carolinas were in British hands. Hope also wished to rid himself of the Continental currency but this was too much for Admiral Arbuthnot who studied the captain through rheumy eyes.

'You arrive on my station, sir, occupy a British post without authority, fail in a mission you claim is secret yet was given you by the captain of a frigate and now you wish me to rid you of an embarrassing sum of rebel currency.' The admiral rose. 'You may retain the stuff until you report to y'r own flag officer, Admiral… Admiral…'

'Kempenfelt, sir.'

'Exactly.' Arbuthnot appeared to consider the matter closed.

'But sir, I have to refit my to'gallants…'

'Your topgallants, sir, are your topgallants and not mine… I suggest you contact Admiral Kempenfelt on the matter. Good day, sir.'

Hope left.

Eventually Arbuthnot's secretary received instructions from London to render such assistance as might be necessary to the frigate Galatea. A note was appended to the effect that due to political circumstances of the greatest importance, Galatea had been retained in home waters and her mission undertaken by Cyclops, Captain Henry Hope, R.N.

The secretary therefore prepared an order for her to come in and draw such stores as she required and refit her gear. Arbuthnot signed the order without comment since he was at that time prone to sign almost anything, being nearly blind. On receipt of these orders Cyclops moved to a berth at the Manhattan Dockyard to commence her repairs. On that evening Hope and Devaux dined together. Over their port, several cases of which had been removed from La Creole, Hope drew Devaux's attention to a decision that the weather and the frigate's cranky tophamper had deferred.

'Assuming that we eventually receive definite orders, Devaux, we have to consider the matter of a replacement for Skelton. Cranston was a loss to us and the Service as a whole…'

'Yes,' agreed Devaux nodding. His mind slid back to the dense forest and the sight of Cranston's mutilated body… He tore his mind away from the grisly memory.

'D'ye have any opinions?' asked the Captain.

The first lieutenant recollected himself. 'Well sir, the next senior is Morris. His journals are poorly kept, though he's served the six years… I consider him quite unsuitable and I would appreciate his removal from the ship… indeed I threatened him with it I seem to remember… I am of the opinion that young Drinkwater is a likely candidate for an acting lieutenancy.' He paused. 'But surely, sir, there's a junior in the fleet hereabouts…' Devaux indicated the riding lights of several warships visible through the stern windows.

'An Admiral's favourite d'ye mean, Mr Devaux?' asked Hope archly.

'Just so, sir.'

'But Admiral Arbuthnot informed me that the ship is under Kempenfelt's flag. Who am I to question his decision?' he enquired with mock humility, and then in a harder tone, 'besides I am not disposed to question him on the matter of my midshipmen.' He sipped his port. 'Furthermore I submitted a list of casualties that clearly indicated the state of our complement of officers. If he does not see fit to appoint someone he can go to the devil.' He paused. 'Besides I rather suspect Kempenfelt would approve our choice…' Hope smiled benignly and tossed off the glass.

Devaux raised an eyebrow. 'Old Blackmore will be pleased, he's had Drinkwater under his wing since we left Sheerness.' The two officers refilled their glasses.

'Which,' said Devaux choosing his moment, 'brings me to the matter of Morris sir. I'd be obliged if a transfer could be arranged…'

'That is a little drastic, is it not, Mr Devaux. What's behind this request?'

Devaux outlined the problem and added the remark that in any case Morris would resent serving under Drinkwater. Hope snorted.

'Resent! Why I've resented serving under half the officers I've submitted to. But Morris is fortunate, Mr Devaux. Had I known earlier I'd have broken him. Another time I'll trouble you to tell me as soon as you have any inkling of this kind of thing… it's the bane of the Service and produces officers like that loathsome Edgecumbe…' Hope added expansively.

'Yes, sir,' Devaux changed the subject hastily. 'What are the Admiral's intentions, sir?'

Again Hope snorted. 'Intentions! I wish he had some. Why he and General Clinton sit here in New York waving the Union Flag with enough soldiers to wipe Washington off the face of the earth. Clinton shits himself with indecision at the prospect of losing New York and saves face by sending General Philips into Virginny.

'However I hear that Arbuthnot's to be relieved…'

'Who by, sir?'

'Graves…'

'Good God, not Graves…'

'He's a pleasant enough man which is more than I found Arbuthnot.'

'He's an amiable incompetent, sir. Wasn't he court-martialled for refusing battle with an Indiaman?'

'Yes, back in 'fifty-seven… no 'fifty-six. He was acquitted of cowardice but publicly reprimanded for an error of judgement under the 36th Article of War… you must admit some Indiamen pack a punch…' Both officers smiled ruefully at memories of La Creole.

'D'ye know, John, it's one of the great ironies that on the very day the court at Plymouth sentenced Tommy Graves, a court at Portsmouth got John Byng for a similar offence which was far more strategically justifiable. You know what happened to Byng. They sentenced him under the 12th Article… he was shot on his own quarterdeck…' Hope's voice trailed off.

'Pour encourager les autres…' muttered Devaux. 'Voltaire, sir,' he said in explanation as Hope looked up.

'Ah, that Godless French bastard…'

'Does anyone know what's happened to Cornwallis, sir?'

Hope stirred. 'No! I don't believe any of 'em know anything, John. Now what about my main to'gallant…?'

The next morning Devaux sent for Drinkwater. The lieutenant was staring north up the Hudson River to where the New Jersey Palisades could be seen, catching the early sunlight.

'Sir?'

Devaux turned and regarded the young man. The face had matured now. The ragged line of the wound, rapidly scarring, would hardly alter the flesh over the cheekbones though it might contrast the weathered tan. The figure beneath the worn and patched uniform was spare but fit. Devaux snapped his glass shut.

'That hanger you had off La Creole's lieutenant… D'ye still have it?'

Drinkwater coloured. At the end of the action he had found himself still clasping the small sword. It was a fine weapon and its owner had not survived long after the capture of his ship. Drinkwater had regarded the thing as his own part of the spoil. After all the gunroom officers wallowed in the captured wine for weeks afterwards and he felt the weight of a dirk too useless for real fighting. The sword had found its way to the bottom of his sea-chest where it lay wrapped in bunting. He did not know how Devaux knew this but assumed that omniscience was a natural attribute of first lieutenants.

'Well, sir?' queried Devaux, a note of asperity in his voice.

'Er, yes, sir…I, er, do have it…'

'Then ye'd better clap it on y're larboard hip!'

'Beg pardon, sir?' The young man frowned uncomprehendingly.

Devaux laughed at Drinkwater's puzzled expression. 'The captain is promoting you acting third lieutenant as of now. You may move your chest and effects up on to the gun-deck…' He watched the effect of the news on Drinkwater's face. The lad's mouth dropped open, then closed. He blinked, then smiled back. At last he stammered his thanks.

Cyclops lay at her anchor with Arbuthnot's squadron through May and June. During this time Drinkwater's prime task was to get a new broadcloth coat from a New York tailor. The ship had recruited its complement from the guardships but there was little for the men to do. Then, on 12th July, things began to happen. Admiral Graves arrived, a kind, generous but simple incompetent who was to be instrumental in losing the war. Then Rodney's tender Swallow arrived with the intelligence that Admiral De Grasse had left the West Indies with a French fleet bound for the Chesapeake. Graves chose to ignore the warning despite its significance. Since May Lord Cornwallis had abandoned the Carolinas and was combining his force with General Philips's in Virginia. If Cornwallis had De Grasse sitting on his communications with New York he would be cut off. Captains and officers had themselves rowed about the fleet while they grumbled about their admiral's failure to grasp the simplest strategic facts. Cornwallis was retreating to the sea for the navy to support him… but the navy was in New York…

Once again the opinion was expressed that in executing Byng their Lordships had taken more leave of their senses than was usual; they had shot the wrong man.

Another message arrived via Pegasus that urged Graves to sail south and join Sir Samuel Hood, to whom Rodney had relinquished command through ill health. But the fleet remained supinely at anchor.

At the beginning of August Clinton decided to act, not against Virginia, but against Rhode Island where French troops and men o'war were based. Admiral Graves ordered a number of ships down to Sandy Hook in preparation. One of these was Cyclops.

It was at this time that Midshipman Morris left the frigate.

When Cyclops left the Galuda her ship's company were hard put to fight the elements, guard their prisoners and simply survive. The remaining lieutenants were on watch and watch, with the mates and midshipmen equally hard pressed. Drinkwater and Morris were in opposite watches and the preoccupations of working and sleeping allowed no-one the luxury of contemplating the events of past weeks objectively. It would not be true, however, to say that the events and circumstances that had occurred were forgotten. Rather they sat at a level just above the sub-conscious, so that they influenced conduct but did not dominate it. Drinkwater was particularly affected. The horrors he had seen and the guilt he felt over his involvement in the death of Threddle impinged on his self-esteem. And his knowledge of the manner of Sharples's death lay like a weight upon his soul.

Although Sharples had been the true murderer of Threddle, Drinkwater knew that he had been driven to it. Morris's coldblooded execution of the seaman at the mill, however, was another matter.

To Drinkwater's mind it was a matter for the law or, and he shuddered at the thought, a matter for vengeance.

When Cyclops arrived at New York there was time, too much time, for the mind to wander over possible causes and effects and the consequences of action.

In the midshipmen's mess some contact with Morris was unavoidable and there had been potentially disruptive scenes. Drinkwater had always avoided them by walking out, but this action had given Morris the impression of an ascendancy over Nathaniel.

Morris had entered the mess some time after, but on the day that Drinkwater had been told of his promotion.

'And what's our brave Nathaniel up to now?' There was silence. Then White came in. 'I've taken your boat-cloak and tarpaulin to your cabin, Nat… er, sir…'

Nathaniel smiled at his friend. 'Thanks, Chalky…'

'Cabin? Sir? What bloody tomfoolery is this…?' Morris was colouring with comprehension. Nathaniel said nothing but continued to pack things in his chest. White could not resist the chance of aggravating the bully at whose hands he had suffered, particularly when he had a powerful ally in the person of the acting third lieutenant.

'Mr Drinkwater,' he said with gravity, 'is promoted to acting third lieutenant.'

Morris glared as he assimilated the news. He turned to Nathaniel in a fury.

'The devil you are. Why you jumped-up little bastard you don't have time in for lieutenant… I suppose you've been arse-licking the first lieutenant again… I'll see about this…' He ran on for some minutes in similar vein.

Drinkwater felt himself seized again by the cold rage that had made him so brutal with the wounded French lieutenant of La Creole. It was a permanent legacy of that horrendous march inland and was to stamp his conduct in moments of physical confrontation. As the influence of his widowed mother had made him soft clay for Morris's viciousness, the events of the Galuda had tempered the latent iron in his soul.

'Have a care, sir,' he said, his voice low and menacing, 'have a care in what you say… you forget I have passed for master's mate which is more than you have ever managed… you also forget I have evidence to have you hanged under two Articles of War…'

Morris paled and Drinkwater thought for a moment he was going to faint. At last he spoke.

'And what if I tell of your conduct over Threddle?'

Drinkwater felt his own heart thump with recollection but he retained his head. He turned to little White who was staring wide-eyed between one and the other of the older midshipmen.

'Chalky, if you had to choose between evidence I gave and evidence Morris gave whose would you favour?'

The boy smiled, pleased at the dividend his revenge was receiving, 'Yours, Nat, of course…'

'Thank you. Now perhaps you and Morris would be kind enough to carry my chest to my cabin.'

Drinkwater luxuriated in the privacy of his little cabin. Situated between two twelve-pounders on the gun-deck it dismantled when the frigate cleared for action. He no longer had to endure the constant comings and goings of the cockpit and was able to read in privacy and quiet. Perhaps the greatest benefit his acting rank conferred upon him was the right to mess in the gunroom and enjoy the society of Wheeler and Devaux. Appleby, though not at that time technically a member of the commissioned officers' mess was a frequent, indeed a usual, visitor. In New York Drinkwater obtained new clothes and cocked hat without braid so that his appearance befitted his new dignity without ostentation, though he was rarely on deck without his captured sword swinging, as Devaux put it, 'upon his larboard hip'.

His acquaintance with the multifarious duties of a naval officer increased daily as there was a constant stream of boats between the ships and town of New York but his social life was limited to an occasional dinner in the gunroom of another vessel: Unlike Wheeler or Devaux he eschewed the delights of the frequent entertainments given by New York society for the garrison and naval officers. This was partly out of shyness, partly out of deference to Elizabeth, but mostly due to the fact that the other occupants of the gunroom now had a junior in their midst sufficiently subordinate not to protest at their abuses of rank.

Drinkwater's chief delight at this time was reading. In the bookshops of New York and from the surgeon's small travelling library he had discovered Smollett and made the consequential acquaintance of Humphry Clinker, Commodore Trunnion and Roderick Random.

It was the latter that led his thoughts so often to Elizabeth. The romantic concept of the waiting woman obsessed him so that the uncertainty of Elizabeth's exact whereabouts worried him. That he loved her was now beyond a doubt. Her image had sustained him in the dreary swamps of Carolina and he had come to think of her as a talisman against all evil, mostly that of Morris.

There was more to his enmity with Morris than a poisonous dislike. He was convinced that the man was an evil influence over his life. Buried deep in the natural fear of the green young midshipman of two years earlier this idea had grown as successive events had seemed to establish a pattern in his imagination. That they had served to strengthen him and his resolution seemed inconsequential. Had he not been made aware of Morris's depravity and the fate of Sharples? Could not someone else have come in from the yard arm that night the topman had begged for help? Could not another midshipman have been sent forward to ask Kate Sharples to leave the deck that day in Spithead?

But now there was a more vivid reason for attributing something supernatural to Morris's malevolence. For Drinkwater was subject to a recurring dream, a nightmare that had its origins in the swamps of Carolina and haunted him with an occasional but persistent terror.

It had come first to him in the exhausted sleep after the taking of La Creole and occurred again in the gales off Cape Hatteras. Twice while Cyclops lay in New York he had suffered from it.

There was always a white lady who seemed to rear over him, pale as death and inexorable in her advance as she came ever nearer, yet never passed over him entirely. Sometimes she bore the face of Cranston, sometimes of Morris but, most horribly of Elizabeth, but an Elizabeth of Medusa-like visage before which he quailed, drowning in a vast noise like the clanking of chains, rhythmically jerking… or of Cyclops's pumps…

It was therefore with relief that Drinkwater learned of Morris's transfer. Since his promotion he had not sought to impose his newfound authority upon Morris and simply heard that he was joining a ship in Rear Admiral Drake's division with an inner and secret lightening of the heart.

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-bye, 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 of 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 heavy 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…