An Eye of the Fleet

complained. The filthy fo'c's'le was stinking with the corpse's corruption and their own excrement. Activity, even in a malodorous bilge, was preferable to the miasma of death prevailing in their cramped quarters.

When he reached the after end of the hold Drinkwater moved out to the side. Here there were gratings that ran round the schooner's lazarette. The wooden powder magazine was set in the centre of the ship with the catwalk all around. This was decked with the gratings that now barred their passage. Upon these the gunner's mates walked round tending the lanterns that, shining through glass, safely illuminated the gunner within and enabled him to make up his cartridges.

Sergeant Hagan followed Drinkwater. Between them they lifted a grating and got through. Men followed silently. They were still in darkness but a faint current of air told where a small hatch led on deck at the top of a panelled trunking. It was locked. Drinkwater and Hagan felt round the space. Behind the ladder they found a door that led into the after quarters. It too was locked.

Hagan swore. They knew that once they were through that door they had a fair chance of success. In there were the officers' quarters. On either side of the alleyway beyond there were a couple of cabins and at the end, athwart the ship, the stern cabin. If they failed to capture the deck possession of the after quarters would probably result in the capture of an officer who might be useful as a hostage. But the door was secured against them.

Drinkwater dared not rattle the lock. In the darkness he could hear his men breathing. They all relied on him; what could he do now? He felt the hot tears of frustrated anger begin to collect and he was for the first time thankful for the darkness.

'Beg pardon, sir…?' A voice whispered.

'Yes?'

'Locked door, sir?'

'Yes.' He replied without hope.

'Let me have a look, sir.'

There was a pushing and a shoving. A man came past. There was a silence as eighteen men held their breath, the creaking of the schooner and hiss of the sea seemed inaudible. Then a faint click was heard.

A man shoved back into the queue.

'Try it now, sir.'

Drinkwater found the handle and turned it very slowly. The door gave. He pulled it to again. 'What's your name?'

'Best you don't know it sir.'

There was a muffled snigger. The man was doubtless one of Cyclops's many thieves. With the scum of London pressed in her crew it was not surprising. Nevertheless the man's nefarious skill had saved the situation.

'Are you ready?' Drinkwater enquired generally in a loud whisper.

'Aye! Aye!…' The replies were muffled but nothing could disguise their eagerness.

Drinkwater opened the door. He made directly for the companionway. Hagan and the marine behind him made for the arms chest outside the stern cabin. Alternately a marine and a seaman emerged blinking into the dimly lit alleyway. The marines armed themselves with the cutlasses Hagan thrust at them; then in pairs they burst into the cabins. They took Josiah King before the Rhode Islander's feet hit the deck. His flimsy cabin door was dashed to matchwood and Hagan, his face contorted into a furious grimace presented the point of a cutlass to King's chest.

Drinkwater dashed on deck. His heart was pounding and fear leant a ferocity to him. The companionway emerged on deck abaft a skylight that let on to the passageway. Fortunately for the British a canvas cover was pulled over this to prevent the light disturbing the helmsman. But the helmsman stood immediately aft of the hatch, behind the binnacle. He leant against the huge tiller, straining with the effort of maintaining weather helm.

The mate on deck was a little further forward but he turned at the helmsman's exclamation. Drinkwater ran full tilt at the mate, knocking him over. The two men behind him secured the helmsman. He was tossed howling over the stern while the next man grabbed the tiller so that Algonquin scarcely faltered on her course.

The American officer rolled breathless on the deck. He attempted to rise and summon the assistance of the watch but Drinkwater, recovering from his butting charge, had whipped a belaying pin from the rail. The hardwood cracked on the man's head and laid him unconscious on his own deck.

Drinkwater stood panting with effort. The noise of blood and energy roared in his ears. It was impossible that the Algonquin's crew had not been awakened by the din. Around him the British, several armed by Hagan's marines gathered like black shadows As one man they rolled forward. Too late the Americans on deck realised something was amiss. They went down howling and fighting. One attempted to wake those below. But resistance was useless. Men threatened with imprisonment in a French hulk or the benches of a galley are desperate. Five Americans perished through drowning, hurled over Algonquin's side. Several were concussed into insanity. Eight were killed by their own edged weapons, weapons intended to intimidate unarmed merchantmen. The remainder were penned into the hold so lately reserved for their victims.

In ten minutes the ship was retaken.

Half an hour later she was put about, the sheets eased and, on a broad reach, steadied on course for England.

Chapter Ten Elizabeth

August 1780

Drinkwater leaned over the chart. Beside him a quartermaster named Stewart was pointing out the navigational dangers. Stewart had served as mate of a merchant ship and Drinkwater was thankful for his advice.

'I think Falmouth, Mr Drinkwater,' the man said. 'You'll find the distance less and you'll not need to fear the Eddystone. The lighthouse is fine but the light feeble. Nay I'd say the twin cressets of the Lizard will be a better mark.'

Drinkwater heeded Stewart. The former mate was a tough and experienced mariner which the incongruous paradoxes of human social order placed under his orders.

'Very well. Falmouth it is. But I fear them retaking the ship. We have at least twenty leagues to run before sighting the Lizard…'

'I do not think they will attempt it. Hagan's guard won't let them trick us again. The boys'll spit them with their baynits before asking any questions. Just you refuse them all requests and favours, Mr Drinkwater.'

Rolling the charts up they went on deck.

Algonquin raced along, her canvas straining under the force of the wind. On either side of her the white water hissed urgently as her keel tramped down the waters of the Channel underfoot.

The breeze was fresh but steady, allowing them to keep sail on the schooner and reel off a steady seven knots. At eight bells the next morning the sun caught the twin white towers of the Lizard and at noon Algonquin ran into Falmouth Harbour, under the guns of St Mawes and Pendennis castles. At her peak she flew British over American colours. Drinkwater brought her to an anchor under the guns of a frigate lying in Carrick Roads.

Drinkwater was reluctant to leave Algonquin and report to the frigate, but the warship sent her own boat. Amidst a crowd of unfamiliar faces he was rowed across to her. She proved to be the Galatea.

Reporting to the third lieutenant he was informed the Captain was in lodgings ashore but that the first lieutenant would receive his report.

Drinkwater was conducted aft to where a tall, thin officer was bent almost double under the deck beams. He was coughing violently.

'Beg pardon, sir, this is Midshipman Drinkwater of the Cyclops. Prizemaster of the