An Eye of the Fleet

Cyclops, now carrying her studding sails in the freshening breeze, was tearing down on her. The American held his canvas but his smaller vessel laboured with its huge gaff sails threatening to bury her bow and broach her. The British frigate came on with a great white bone in her teeth. On her fo'c's'le Devaux waited for her bow to rise. The bow chaser barked.

'Short by God!' The gun's crew loaded again. Smoke belched a second time from the muzzle as the frigate ascended.

A dozen glasses were pointed at the schooner fine to larboard. The knot of officers on the quarterdeck muttered their opinions to each other. Drinkwater lingered, retained as messenger to the captain.

'We're closing all right.'

'He still hasn't hoisted colours.'

'There they are.' The American ensign rose to the peak and snapped out in the wind. The schooner was driving forward under too great a press of canvas. White water surged beneath her bow and along her side. A brief puff of smoke appeared, instantly dissipated by the wind. A hole opened in the frigate's forecourse.

'Good shooting by heaven!'

'Aye, and Hon Johnny will be bloody cross…'

Devaux's long nine-pounder barked again. A hole was visible in the schooner's mainsail.

'Quid pro quo,' said Keene.

'What'd you do now?' asked Wheeler of no one in particular.

'I'd stand to windward as fast as I could, once up wind of us he'll get away,' said Lieutenant Price. Everyone knew the schooner, with her fore and aft rig, could haul a bowline faster than a square-rigged frigate, but Price's opinion was contested by Drinkwater who could no longer hold himself silent.

'Beg pardon, Mr Price, but he's his booms to larboard with the wind aft. To stand to wind'ard he has to gybe on to the larboard tack. To do so on the starboard he must needs cross our bow…'

'He'll have to do something,' said Price irritably…

'Look!' said several voices at once.

The American commander knew his business. Aware that his desperate gamble of overcarrying canvas had failed, he decided to stand to windward on the larboard tack. But the risk of a gybe that would carry away gear was unacceptable if he was to escape, and he had to think of something to reduce this risk. Hope had been intently studying the Yankee, had reasoned along the lines that Drinkwater had followed and was anticipating some move by the rebel ship.

What the officers had seen was the scandalising of the two big gaff sails. The wooden gaffs began to hang down on their peak halyards, taking the power out of the canvas. But Hope had already noticed the topping lifts tighten to take the weight of the booms even before the peak halyards were started. He began roaring orders.

'Hands to braces! Move damn you!'

'Foretack! Maintack!'

The officers and men were galvanised to action. Hope looked again at the schooner, her speed had slackened. As Devaux's gun barked again the shot went over. The schooner began to turn. Now her stern was towards Cyclops. Through the glass Drinkwater read her name: Algonquin, Newport. He reported it to Hope. The schooner rolled to starboard as she came round, then her booms whipped over as she gybed. But the Americans were skilful. The main and foresheets were overhauled and the wind spilled from the scandalised sails.

'Down helm!'

'Lee braces!'

'Mainsail haul!'

'Let go an' haul!'

Even as Algonquin's gaffs rose again and her sails were hauled flat, Cyclops was turning. Hope's task was to traverse the base of a triangle the hypotenuse of which formed Algonquin's track. The schooner pointed to windward better than the frigate and if she reached the angle of the triangle before Cyclops, without damage, her escape was almost certain.

On the fo'c's'le Devaux was transferring his attention to the starboard bow chaser as Cyclops steadied on her new course, heeling over under her press of canvas.

A crack came from aloft. The main royal had dissolved into tattered strips.

'Aloft and secure that raffle!'

The Algonquin was pointing well up but still carrying too much canvas. Nevertheless she was head-reaching on the British frigate. For a few minutes the two ships raced on, the wind in the rigging and the hiss of water along their hulls the only significant sounds accompanying their grim contest. Then Devaux fired the starboard bow chaser. The shot passed through Algonquin's mainsail close to the first hole. A seam opened up and the sail flogged in two… three pieces.

Cyclops came up with her victim and hove-to just to windward. The Yankee ensign remained at the gaff.

Hope turned to Drinkwater. 'My compliments to Mr Devaux and he may fire the first division at that fellow.' Drinkwater hurried forward and delivered his message. The first lieutenant descended to the gun-deck and the six leading twelve-pounders in the starboard battery roared their command. The American struck.

'Mr Price, take a midshipman, two quartermasters, two bosun's mates and twenty men. Plymouth or Falmouth, Mr Price. Mr Wheeler, a file of your marines!'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

The long boat was swayed up from the waist and over the side, the yardarms blocks clicking with the efforts of the seamen. Once in the water men tumbled down into it. Drinkwater heard his own name called out by Price.

'Mr Drinkwater, see the Master for our position and a chart.'

'Aye, aye, sir!' The midshipman went in search of Blackmore. The old master was still grumbling about interruptions to his soundings on the Labadie Bank, but he wrote out the estimated latitude and longitude quickly enough. As Drinkwater turned away the old man grabbed his arm.

'Be careful, lad,' he said, full of concern, 'Yon's not like the Don.'

Drinkwater swallowed. In the excitement he had not realised the implications of boarding the prize. He went off to join the longboat. In minutes it was pulling across the water between the two ships.

Once clear of the ship's lee the force of the wind tore off the wave-caps, dashing the spray into the boat. Sergeant Hagan reminded his men to cover their primings and the marines moved as one man to place their hands over the pans. Halfway between Cyclops and Algonquin the longboat swooped into the wave troughs so that only the mastheads of the two ships were visible. Then those of Cyclops receded as those of the rebel ship loomed over them.

Drinkwater had a peculiarly empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was aware of the collective tension of the prize crew as they sat, stony-faced, each man wrapped in his own apprehension. Drinkwater felt vulnerably small, sitting alongside Price, as they took the frail boat over this turbulent circle of the vast ocean. Astern of them Cyclops, the mighty home of thirteen score of men dwindled into insignificance.

Hope had deliberately detailed a large body of men for taking the privateer. He knew she would have a numerous and aggressive crew capable of manning her own prizes. As the longboat neared the privateer Drinkwater realised Blackmore's predictions would be right. This was no comparison with the boarding of the Santa Teresa. There, wrapped in the powerful protection of a victorious fleet, he had felt no qualms. The dramatic circumstances of the Moonlight Battle and the rapid succession of events that had resulted in him accepting a surrendered sword, had combined into an experience of almost sublime exhilaration. The remnants of chivalric war were absent now. The bayonets of the marines glittered cruelly. With a dreadful pang of nauseous fear Drinkwater imagined what it would be like to be pierced by so ghastly a weapon. He shrank from the thought.

The next moment they were alongside the schooner.

The twenty seamen followed Price up the side, Hagan and his marines brought up the rear. Lieutenant Price addressed a blue-coated man who appeared to be the commander.

'I must ask you for your vessel's papers, sir.' The blue-coated one turned away.

Sergeant Hagan swept his men through the ship. She had a crew of forty-seven seamen. Having ascertained