An Eye of the Fleet

schooner yonder…' Drinkwater was suddenly a boy again, the responsibility of command lifted from him in the presence of this intimidating stranger. He felt very tired, tired and dirty.

The tall man looked at him and smiled. Then in an unmistakably Northumbrian accent he said, 'Watched you anchor mister. Well done. You'll have prisoners, no doubt?'

'Aye, sir, about twenty.'

The lieutenant frowned. 'About?' He fell to coughing again.

'I haven't allowed them on deck, sir. I'm not sure how many were killed last night.'

The officer's frown deepened. 'You say you're from Cyclops, lad?'

'Aye, sir, that's correct.'

'She's off Ireland or thereaboots, so how were you fighting last night?'

Drinkwater explained how the Americans had retaken the ship, how Lieutenant Price had been killed and briefly related the prize crew's desperate attempt to retrieve the situation. The first lieutenant's frown was replaced by a wry grin.

'You'll be wantin' to be rid of such troublesome fellars then.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I'll send some men and our longboat over. You'll have to take them to Pendennis. After that report to Captain Edgecumbe at the Crown.' The tall man indicated first the squat tower of Pendennis on its headland above the harbour and then the huddle of houses and cottages that constituted the market town of Falmouth. He broke into another fit of coughing.

Thank you, sir.'

'My pleasure, lad,' said the tall man moving away.

'Beg pardon, sir?' The man turned, a bloody handkerchief to his mouth.

'May I ask your name?'

'Collingwood,' coughed the tall lieutenant.

Lieutenant Wilfred Collingwood was as good as his word. Half an hour later Galatea's longboat was alongside and a file of marines came aboard. Hagan had done his best to smarten the crew up but they did not compare with Galatea's men.

The Americans were herded into the boat. Drinkwater ordered Algonquin's boat into the water and was rowed ashore with Stewart. On the stone pier of Falmouth's inner harbour the marines were lining the American prisoners up. Josiah King was paraded scowling at the head of his men and the scarlet coats were lined along either side of the downcast little column. Drinkwater, his trousers still damp and smelling of bilge, swaggered at their head while Stewart and six seamen followed with cutlasses.

Hagan, also stinking of bilge, marched beside Drinkwater. The column moved off. It was market day and Falmouth was crowded. The people cheered the little procession as it tramped through the narrow streets. Drinkwater was conscious of the eyes of girls and women, and found the sensation thus produced arousing. But such is the vanity of humanity that Sergeant Hagan threw out his chest and received the same glances with the same assurance that they were for him. Whereas in truth they were intended for the handsome, sulking American commander who, in the romantic hour of his defeat appealed to the perverse preference of the women.

Josiah King burned with a furious rage that seemed to roar in his skull like a fire. He burned with shame at losing his ship a second time. He burned with impotent anger that fate had wrested the laurels of victory from him, Josiah King of Newport, Rhode Island, and conferred them on the skinny young midshipman whose wet and smelly ducks stuck to his legs with every swaggering stride he took. He burned too with the knowledge that he had been outwitted at the very moment he had been congratulating himself on his forethought. That was perhaps the bitterest, most private, part of the affair. Behind him his men trooped disconsolately as the column moved out of the town and began to climb the headland.

The road passed the end of the hornworks ascending through low undergrowth. It was hot and the sun beat down upon them. Suddenly the ramparts rose on their left and they swung over the fosse, under the Italianate guard-house inside which the huge expanse of the castle enclosure revealed itself.

The guard had called the sergeant and the sergeant called his captain. The captain despatched an ensign to attend to the matter and continued his post-prandial doze. The ensign was insufferably pompous, having discovered that the escort was commanded by a none too clean midshipman. His condescending manner annoyed the exhausted Drinkwater who was compelled to endure the tedium of the unfamiliar and bewildering paperwork without which even the business of war could not be expedited. Each individual American had to be identified and signed for both by the ensign and the midshipman. All the while the sun beat down and Drinkwater felt the fatigue of a sleepless night merge with the euphoric relief from responsibility. At last the disdainful officer was satisfied.

The marines had fallen in again and the little party began to descend to the town.

With Stewart, Drinkwater repaired to the Crown Inn.

Captain Edgecumbe of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Galatea was an officer of the old school. When a ragamuffin midshipman appeared before him in filthy ducks the Captain was rightly wrathful. When that same scruffy midshipman attempted to report the arrival of the captured privateer Algonquin the captain refused to be side-tracked by incidentals. He also disliked interruptions.

The diatribe to which he subjected Drinkwater was as lengthy as it was unnecessary. In the end the midshipman stood silent, discovering, after some minutes had elapsed, that he was not even listening. Outside the hot sun shone and he had an odd longing to be doing nothing but lounging in that sunshine and perhaps have his arm about the waist of one of those pretty girls he had seen earlier. The sweet scent of Cornwall wafted in through the open window distracting his senses from the path of duty. Only when the Captain ceased his tirade did the sudden silence break into his reverie and drag his conscious mind back to the inn room. He looked at the Captain.

Sitting in his shirt-sleeves Edgecumbe looked what he was, a dissipated and incompetent officer, living out of his ship and indulging his sexual appetites with local ladies. Drinkwater felt a sudden surge of contempt for him.

He touched his forehead. 'Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir.' He turned and marched smartly from the room.

Downstairs he found Stewart in the taproom. He was chaffing with a red-cheeked girl. Drinkwater noticed with a flutter in his stomach the girl had bright eyes and apple breasts.

Stewart, slightly abashed, bought the midshipman a pot of beer.

'Be 'e yer Cap'n?' the girl asked Stewart, giggling incredulously and setting the tankard down in front of Drinkwater.

The quartermaster nodded flushing a little.

Drinkwater was confused by the unaccustomed proximity of the girl, but he felt Stewart's deference to his apparent importance as a spur to his manhood. She leaned over him boldly.

'Does y're honour need anything,' she enquired solicitously.

The heaving bosom no longer embarrassed him in his newfound confidence. He sucked greedily at the tankard, staring at the girl over its rim and enjoying her discomfiture as the beer warmed his belly. He was, after all, prize-master of the Algonquin, who had strutted through Falmouth under the admiring glances of scores of women…

He finished the beer. 'To tell the truth ma'am, I have not the means to purchase more than a pot or two of beer…'

The girl plumped herself on the bench next to Stewart. She knew the quartermaster had a guinea or half sovereign about him, for she had seen the glint of gold in his hand. Stewart's experience ensured he never ventured ashore without the price of a little dalliance or a good bottle about his person. The girl smiled at Drinkwater. It was a pity, she thought, he looked a nice young man, handsome in a pale sort of way. She felt Stewart's arm encircle her. Ah, well a girl had to live…

'Yer honour'll have matters of great importance to deal with,' she said pointedly. She began to nestle up to Stewart who was staring at him. Drinkwater was aware of the pressure of Stewart's arm on a large breast. The white flesh swelled up, threatening to eject itself from the ineffectively grubby confines of the girl's bodice.

Drinkwater smiled lightheartedly. Rising, he tossed a few coppers on to the table.