An Eye of the Fleet

dull knocks before starting again.

'Wh… where the hell am I?' he asked out loud.

A groan came from alongside him. Then a hand grasped his knee.

'Mister Drinkwater?' A strained voice enquired, pain and anxiety in the tone of it.

'Yes.'

'Grattan, sir, marine.'

'Eh… Oh, yes.'

'We're in the fo'c's'le… just the wounded, sir…'

'Wounded?'

'Aye, sir, you were unconscious. My arm's broken…'

'Oh, I'm sorry…'

'Thank you, sir.' Drinkwater's brain was beginning to grasp the situation and an enormous and painful bump on the crown of his head testified to the accuracy of the marine's report. Recollection came back to him. He sat up and took stock.

'What's that noise then?'

'Sweepin', sir… that's what the others are doin'.'

Before he could ask more the hatch flew open. A few cold drops of moisture dripped into Drinkwater's upturned face, then the shape of a man lowering himself down blotted out the foggy daylight.

The man bent over each of the prisoners in turn. When he got to Drinkwater he grunted: 'You're fit. Get on deck!' He grabbed Drinkwater's arm and dragged him to his feet.

A few moments later Drinkwater stood unsteadily on the deck of Algonquin and looked aft. The source of the strange noise revealed itself. Still shrouded in fog, Algonquin was making slow but steady headway over the calm, grey sea. Between the gunports oak thole pins had been driven into the caprail. At each set of pins a long oar, or sweep, was shipped. Two men were stationed at each sweep, heaving it back and forth so that the schooner made way to the southward. The men at the sweeps were nearly all British. One of the American mates walked up and down the deck with a rope's end. Every now and again he brought it down on the bare back of a seaman or the sweat-darkened red coat of a marine.

Drinkwater was pushed along the deck, given a pannikin of green water from the scuttle butt and shoved alongside a marine pulling the aftermost larboard sweep. The man was Hagan. He was running with sweat as the rigging dripped with foggy dew.

Hagan grunted a welcome and Drinkwater grasped the loom of the sweep. It was slippery with the blood and plasma of the man he had relieved. Within a quarter of an hour Drinkwater knew why the privateer was under sweeps. The progress through the fog was an advantage to the American commander but it was also the most efficient way of exhausting the British. An exhausted prize crew would not attempt further resistance.

After an hour Drinkwater had reached a state of physical numbness that utterly overpowered him. He had ceased to feel the mate's starter. His head throbbed but his brain had ceased to function. It was Hagan who roused him from his torpor. The marine sergeant hissed between clenched teeth, 'Breeze comin'.'

Drinkwater raised his head and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.

A catspaw rippled the greasy surface of the sea. The sun was brighter now, warmer. He had no idea of the time nor of how long he had been semi-conscious. The fog began to disperse. Imperceptibly at first, wind and sunshine broke through the murk.

An hour later there was a breeze. Light and fitful, it steadied to become a north westerly air. From a zephyr it graduated to a breeze and the American commander ordered the sweeps inboard and the sails hoisted. Before they were herded below into the fo'c's'le Drinkwater was aware that Algonquin was headed south-east for he had heard the helm order. As the hatch closed over the British the schooner heeled and the water of the Channel hissed past her washboards with increasing speed.

Chapter Nine A Turning of Tables

August 1780

The British prize crew aboard the Algonquin were in a pathetic state. It had been evening when the Americans had retaken their ship. All that night the British had swept the craft south, away from the Cornish coast. It was the following dawn when the midshipman, recovering consciousness, had been forced on deck. By the time the breeze sprang up the day was far advanced.

In the stinking fo'c's'le the British sprawled in all attitudes of exhausted abandon. After a while the eyes adjusted to the darkness and Drinkwater could see the men asleep. He looked for Grattan. The man tossed restlessly, his eyes staring. He was the only other man awake. Another, whose name Drinkwater did not know, was dead. His head had been injured and dried blood blackened his face. He lay stiff, his mouth open, emitting a silent cry that would echo forever. Drinkwater shivered.

Grattan was muttering incoherently for the pain of his arm had brought on a fever.

At noon the hatch was shoved open. A pan of thin soup, some biscuit and water were lowered down. The hatch was being closed again when Drinkwater roused himself and called, 'We've a dead man down here.'

The hatch stopped and the silhouette of a man's head and shoulders was visible against the sky.

'So?' he drawled.

'Will you permit him to be taken on deck?' There was a pause.

'He's one of yours. You brought him: you keep him.' A gobbet of spittle flew down and the hatch slammed shut.

The exchange had woken the men. They made for the food, improvising means of eating it, dunking the biscuit and sucking it greedily.

After a while Sergeant Hagan crawled over to the midshipman.

'Beg pardon, Mr Drinkwater, but 'ave you any orders?'

'Eh? What's that?' Drinkwater was uncomprehending.

'Mr Price is dead. You're in charge, sir.'

Drinkwater looked at the quartermasters and the marines. They were all older than him. They had all been at sea longer than he had. Surely they were not expecting him to…? He looked at Hagan. Hagan with twenty-odd years of sea-soldiering to his credit, Hagan with his bragging stories of service under Hawke and Boscawen, Hagan with his resource and courage…

But Hagan was looking at him. Drinkwater's mouth opened to protest his unsuitability. He had not the slightest idea what to do. He closed it again.

Hagan came to his rescue.

'Right lads, Mr Drinkwater wants a roll-call,' he said, 'so let's see how many of us there are… Right…' Hagan coughed, 'Marines speak up!' Apart from the sergeant there were five marines left.

'Quartermasters?' The two quartermasters were both still alive and unwounded.

'Bosun's mates?' There was silence.

'Seamen?' Eleven voices were eventually identified, one of whom complained of a sprained ankle.

Hagan turned to Drinkwater. 'That's… er, counting yerself, sir, that's exactly a score, though one is unfit, sir…' Hagan seemed to think that this round figure represented some triumph for the British.

'Thank you, Sergeant,' Drinkwater managed, unconsciously aping Devaux in his diction. He wondered what was next expected of him. Hagan asked:

'Where d'ye think they mean to take us, sir?'

Drinkwater was about to snap that he had not the faintest idea when he remembered the helm orders as he left the deck.

'South-east,' he said. Recalling the chart he repeated their course and added their destination. 'South-east, to France…'

'Aye,' said one of the quartermasters, 'The bloody rebels have found some fine friends with the frog-eating Johnny Crapos. They'll be takin' us to Morlaix or St Malo…'