An Eye of the Fleet

Wheeler. His arrival was accompanied by a rending of canvas as the forward screen was demolished, thus augmenting the spectators by some two score. Wheeler looked about him.

'Damn my eyes, what an evil coven have we here. For the love of God bring more lanterns, a fencing master has to see, d'ye hear…'

The protagonists faced each other and Wheeler issued his instructions.

'Now gentlemen, the rules of foil, hits with the point, on the trunk only. You are unmasked, which I do not like, but as this is only a sporting match,' this with a heavy emphasis, 'I should not have to caution you.' He paused.

'En garde!'

'Êtes vous prêts?'

'Aye,' 'Aye,' Wheeler grimaced at the common response.

'Allez.'

Drinkwater's legs were bent ready for the lunge and his left hand was on his hip as there was no room for it in equipoise. Morris had adopted a similar position. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

Drinkwater beat Morris's stick; it gave. He beat again and lunged. The point hit Morris on the breastbone but he side swiped and would have hit Drinkwater's head but the latter parried on the lunge and recovered.

'Halte!' yelled Wheeler, then, 'En garde.'

This time Drinkwater extended, drew Morris's stick and disengaged, pressing the lunge. His point, blunt though it was, scraped and bruised Morris's upper arm, ripping his shirt away.

'Halte!' cried Wheeler but as Drinkwater returned to guard Morris, with a yell of rage, cut at his opponent's flank. The blow stung Drinkwater's sword arm and bruised his ribs so that tears started in his eyes and his arm dropped. But it was only for a second. He lost his temper and jabbed forward. Wheeler was yelling for them to stop but Drinkwater's stick drove savagely into Morris's stomach muscles. Morris stumbled and bent forward. Drinkwater recovered and raised his smarting arm. He beat the length of his stick down upon Morris's back.

'Halte! Halte!' screamed Wheeler jumping up and down with the excitement.

'Leave 'em! Leave 'em!' yelled the cheering onlookers.

Drinkwater hit Morris again as he went down. His arm was filled now with the pent-up venom in his soul. He struck Morris for himself, for Sharples and for Kate Sharples until someone pinioned him from behind. Morris lay prone. Someone passed a bucket along. A woman shouted it was full of lady's pee' and the crowd roared its approval as it was emptied over Morris's back.

Lieutenant Devaux, disturbed from the quiet consumption of a third bottle of looted Madeira by the yelling and stamping, elbowed his way through the crowd. He was blear-eyed and dishevelled. He regarded the scene with a jaundiced eye.

'Our bloody little fire eater, eh?'

Silence fell. Punters melted away into the darkness. 'Send this rabble forward. Wheeler! What in God's name are you doing here? Who's in charge? Wheeler, what's the meaning of all this tomfoolery?'

But as Wheeler began to explain an astonished Lieutenant Price came in. Looking at the tableau in ill- disguised regret that he had missed the rout, he addressed the first lieutenant.

'Captain's compliments, Mr Devaux, and will you attend him in the cabin immediately'

For answer Devaux swore horribly and left the company. A few moments later, hair clubbed, hatted and coated he made his way aft.

'Orders to sail, I believe,' Price said quietly to Wheeler by way of explanation.

Drinkwater overheard. He drew a deep, deep breath and turned his back on the shakily standing Morris. They could sail to hell and back now, thought Nathaniel, for he no longer felt oppressed by his boyhood.

Chapter Eight The Capture of the Algonquin

July — August 1780

Cyclops was under easy canvas standing southward. At noon the ship was hove to and soundings tried for the Labadie Bank. As the yards swung round there was a sudden cry from the masthead: 'Sail Ho!'

Devaux ordered Drinkwater up with a glass. When he returned Hope was on deck.

'Schooner, sir,' the midshipman reported.

'Raked masts?'

'Aye, sir.'

'Yankee,' snapped Hope. 'Belay that nonsense, Mr Blackmore. Mr Devaux all sail, steer south.'

Blackmore looked crestfallen, holding the lead and examining the arming, but around him the ship burst into activity. The topgallant sails were cast loose in their slack buntlines and the yards hoisted. Within minutes, braced round to catch the wind, the canvas tautened. Cyclops drove forward.

'Royals, sir?' queried Devaux as he and Hope gauged the wind strength.

'Royals, sir,' assented the captain. 'Royal halliards… hoist away!'

The light yards were set flying, sent aloft at the run to the bare poles above the straining topgallants. As the frigate spread her kites Hope walked forward and carefully ascended the foremast. Behind him Devaux, already querying the wisdom of setting royals in the prevailing breeze, expressed his opinion of captains who could not trust their officers to make reports. Ten minutes later the captain descended. Approaching the knot of officers on the quarterdeck he said, 'She's Yankee all right. Small, light and stuffed full of men. Luckily for us she's to loo'ard and the wind's inclined to freshen.'

'Should catch him then,' said Devaux, looking pointedly aloft.

'Aye,' ruminated Blackmore, still peeved at the captain's disregard for his navigational technicalities, 'but if he once gets to windward he'll stand closer than us…'

'Quite!' snapped Hope, 'and now Mr Devaux we will clear for action.'

Since sailing from Spithead on a cruise against enemy privateers and commerce raiders, the mood in Cyclops's cockpit had changed. The affair of Morris and Drinkwater had been the ship's own cause celebre since many, particularly on the lower deck, knew the background to the quarrel. The immediate consequences for the protagonists had been a mastheading each after which Morris lost all credibility in the mess and, aware of the thinness of the ice upon which he now skated, assumed an attitude of almost total self- effacement. The change in his attitude was quite incredible and while he nursed a venomous hatred for Drinkwater he was himself now haunted by the noose.

Drinkwater, on the other hand, had become overnight a popular hero. His own stature increased with the hands and his self-confidence grew daily. Wheeler had made of him a sort of friend and had undertaken to school him in the smallsword. Drinkwater rapidly became adept at fencing and was once or twice invited to dine in the gunroom. Tregembo and Sharples attached themselves firmly to the midshipman and formed a sort of bodyguard.

After the scrap Blackmore had taken Drinkwater aside and quizzed him further about Morris. Drinkwater had not wanted to press charges and Blackmore saw to it that Morris knew this. The old man was confident that Morris would give no more trouble on the present cruise.

The sighting of the Yankee schooner was the first opportunity Cyclops had had of intercepting all but merchant ships and the crew were in high spirits as she bore down on her quarry.

The chase had seen Cyclops but failed to recognise the danger until too late. Approaching end-on the Americans had taken the frigate for a merchantman and a potential prize. The appearance of Cyclops's gun muzzles however, urged the rebels to flee. The schooner's helm was put up and she made off before the wind.

She was a small, low vessel, a fast soft-wood craft built in the shipyards of Rhode Island. But