An Eye of the Fleet

Hagan spoke again. His simple words came like a cold douche to Drinkwater. Hagan was the fighter, Hagan the expediter of plans. Hagan would not shrink from a physical task once that task had been assigned to him. But he looked to the quality to provide the ideas. To him Drinkwater, in his half-fledged manhood, represented the quality. In the general scheme of things it was assumed a person of Drinkwater's rank automatically had the answer. He was what was known on a King's ship as a 'young gentleman'.

'What do we do, sir?'

Drinkwater's mouth flapped open again. Then he collected himself and spoke, realising their plight was hourly more desperate.

'We retake the ship!'

A pathetically feeble, yet strangely gratifying, cheer went round the men.

Drinkwater went on, gaining confidence as he strung his thoughts together.

'Every mile this ship covers takes her nearer to France and you all know what that means…' There was a morose grumble that indicated they knew only too well. '…There are nineteen fit men here against what?… about three dozen Americans? Does anyone know approximately how many were killed on deck?'

A speculative buzz arose, indicative of rising morale.

'Lots went down when the lieutenant fired the gun, sir…' Drinkwater recognised Sharples's voice. In the bustle of events he had forgotten all about Sharples and his being in the prize crew. He was oddly comforted by the man's presence. '…and we fixed a few, you did for one, sir…' admiration was clear in the man's voice.

Hagan interrupted. It was a sergeant's business to estimate casualties. 'I'd say we did for a dozen, Mr Drinkwater… say three dozen left.' Grunts of agreement came from the men.

'Right, three dozen it is,' Drinkwater continued. An idea had germinated in his brain. 'They're armed, we're not. We're in the fo'c's'le which is sealed from the rest of the ship. It was the one place we chose to put them.' He paused.

'They got out because they made a plan long before we took them. As a… er… contingency… I heard the American captain tell Lieutenant Price he would retake his ship. It was almost like a boast. I've heard Americans have a reputation for boasting…' A desperate cackle that passed for a laugh emanated from the gloomy darkness.

Hagan interrupted again. 'But I don't see how this helps us, sir. They got out.'

'Yes, Mr Hagan. They got out by using their plan. They were model prisoners until they had made their arrangements. They lulled us until the last possible moment then they took back their ship. If we hadn't run into fog we might have been under the lee of the Lizard by now…' he paused again, collecting his thoughts, his heart thumping at the possibility…

'Someone told me these Yankee ships were mostly made of softwood and liable to rot.' A murmur of agreement came from one or two of the older hands.

'Perhaps we could break through the bulkhead or deck into the hold, and work our way aft. Then we could turn the tables on them…'

There was an immediate buzz of interest. Hagan, however was unconvinced and adopted an avuncular attitude. 'But, Nat lad, if we can do that why didn't the Yankees?'

'Aye, aye,' said several voices.

But Drinkwater was convinced it was their only hope. 'Well I'm not sure,' he replied, 'but I think they didn't want to raise our suspicions by any noise. It is going to be difficult for us… Anyway, if I am right they already had a plan worked out which relied on us behaving in a predictable manner. Now we've got to better them. Let's start searching for somewhere to begin.'

In the darkness it took them an hour to find a weak, spongy plank in the deck of the fo'c's'le. Hagan produced the answer to their lack of tools by employing his boots. The joke this produced raised morale still further, for the booted marines, the unpopular policemen of a man o'war, were the butt of many a barefoot sailor's wit.

Hagan smashed in enough to get a hand through, timing his kicks to coincide with the plunging of the Algonquin's bow into the short Channel seas. For the wind veered and the schooner was laid well over, going to windward like a thoroughbred. Regularly and rhythmically she thumped into each wave and as she did so she disguised the noise of demolition.

The deck lifted easily once an aperture had been made. Access was swiftly gained to the cable tier below. Drinkwater descended himself.

The schooner's cable lay on a platform of wooden slats. Beneath these the swirl and rush of bilge water revealed a passage aft. It was totally dark below but, doing his best to ignore the stench, he pressed on driven by desperation. He wriggled over the coils of rope and in one corner, unencumbered by cable he found the athwartships bulkhead that divided the forepart of the ship from the hold. Here he found the slatting broken and ill- fitting.

He had to get aft of the bulkhead. He struggled down in the corner, worming his way beneath the cable tier platform where they failed to meet the ship's side properly. Something ran over his foot. He shuddered in cold terror, never having mastered a fear of rats. Fighting back his nausea he lowered himself into the bilge water. Its cold stink rose up on his legs and lapped at his genitals. For a long moment he hung poised, the malodorously filthy water clammily disgusting him. Then a strange, detached feeling came over him: as if he watched himself. In that moment he gained strength to go on. Continuing his immersion Nathaniel Drinkwater finally forsook adolescence.

Algonquin was on the larboard tack, leaning to starboard. By sheer good fortune Drinkwater's descent was on the larboard side. There was therefore a greater amount of water to starboard and a 'dry' space for him to cling to. Even so it was slippery with stinking slime. He could see nothing, and yet his eyes stared apprehensively into darkness. All his senses were alert, that of smell almost overpowered by the stench of the bilge. But although he gagged several times he was possessed now by an access of power that drove him relentlessly on, ignoring his bodily weaknesses, impelled by his will.

He moved aft over each of Algonquin's timbers. Eventually he found what he hardly dared hope he would discover. The schooner's builders had not constructed the pine planking of the bulkhead down to the timbers. It extended to cross 'floors' which supported the 'ceiling' that formed the bottom of the hold. Between that and the ship's skin a small bilge space ran the length of the vessel.

Drinkwater continued aft. Having eventually completed his reconnaissance he began to return to his fellow prisoners. He was excited so that twice he slipped, once going into the foul water up to his chest, but at last he wriggled back into the fo'c's'le. The men were expectantly awaiting his return. They offered him a pull at the water pannikin which he accepted gratefully. Then he looked round the barely discernible circle of faces.

'Now my lads,' he said with new-found authority, 'this is what we'll do…'

Captain Josiah King, commander of the privateer Algonquin, sat in the neat stern cabin of his schooner drinking a looted bottle of Malmsey. He would be in Morlaix by morning if the wind did not veer again. There he could disencumber himself of these British prisoners. He shuddered at the recollection of losing his ship, but as quickly consoled himself with his own forethought. The contingency plan had worked well — the British lieutenant had been a fool. The British always were. King had been with Whipple when the Rhode Islanders burnt the Government schooner Gapée, back in '72. He remembered her captain, Lieutenant Duddingstone, acting the hero waving a sword about. A thrust in the groin soon incapacitated him. They had cast the unfortunate lieutenant adrift in a small boat. King smiled at the memory. When the magistrates eventually examined the cause of the burning the entire population of the town protested ignorance. King knew every spirited man in Newport had answered Whipple's summons. The American smiled again.

Burgoyne had been a fool too with his clap-trap about honourable terms of surrender. Never mind that Gates had promised his army a safe-conduct to the coast. The British had surrendered and then been locked up for their pains. That was what war was about: winning. Simply that and nothing else.

Warmed by recollection and wine he did not hear the slight scuffle of feet in the alleyway outside…

Drinkwater's plan worked perfectly. They had waited until well after dark. By this time such food as the Americans allowed them had been consumed. Each fit man was detailed off to follow in order and keep in contact with the man ahead.

The midshipman led the way. The wind had eased and Algonquin heeled less. The passage of the bilge was foul. Rats scrabbled out of their way, squealing a protest into the darkness, but no one