An Eye of the Fleet

'Algonquin off St Mawes…'

He tucked the picture safely in the bottom of his sea-chest, scrambled into his hammock and re-read Elizabeth's letter.

Elizabeth wished him safe and well. Perhaps Elizabeth loved him.

He lay basking in the inner warmth the news gave him. A kind of bursting laughter exploded somewhere inside his chest. A feeling of superhuman triumph and tenderness welled up within him, so that he chuckled softly to himself as Cyclops creaked to windward in the gale.

The month of January 1781 was one of almost continuous bad weather in the North Atlantic. The 'families' of depressions that tracked obliquely across that great expanse of water dashed a French fleet to pieces on the rock- girt coasts of the Channel Islands. Two thousand French soldiers had embarked to capture the islands but hundreds perished as their troopships were smashed to bits. Eight hundred who got ashore at St Helier almost succeeded in taking the town until twenty-six year old Major Pearson led a desperate bayonet charge in which the French were routed but the young man lost his life.

But it was not only the French fleet that had suffered. Earlier, in October of 1780, Rodney's West Indies Fleet had been virtually destroyed in a hurricane. Most of Hotham's squadron had been dismasted and six ships lost. Although Sir Samuel Hood was even then proceeding to Rodney's aid, things were going ill for British arms. The situation in North America, handled in a dilatory fashion by Lord North and Lord George Germaine, had become critical. None of the principals were to know it at the time but the combination of the Franco-American armies around an obscure peninsula on the James River in Virginia was to prove decisive. As Lord Cornwallis fought his way through the swamps and barrens of Carolina with a pathetically small army, Nathaniel Greene opposing him, 'fought and ran, fought and ran again', slowly exhausting the British who staggered from one Pyrrhic victory after another in ever diminishing numbers.

In Gibraltar Augustus Elliot and his little garrison held out whilst Cyclops suffered the battering of the elements, herself like a half-tide rock.

Topgallant masts were struck and twice the frigate drove off before the wind heading back towards the Europe that Hope strove to leave astern, bound as he was for the coast of Carolina.

Life between decks had resumed its dismal round so familiar to the ship's company. Damp permeated every corner until fungi grew freely and men sickened with lassitude and discomfort. Once again the lash was employed with nauseating regularity. The men became surly and the atmosphere thick with discontent.

In this climate it was not only the spores of floral parasites that flourished. Such conditions seemed to release the latent energies of Midshipman Morris, perhaps because the ship was less efficiently policed, perhaps because in the prevailing environment men were less interested in reminding him of previous humiliation.

Morris's position as the senior midshipman was a puissant one, and young White was the chief recipient of Morris's unpleasantness. No sarcasm was too trifling but the opportunity must be taken to hurt the hapless child, for his voice had not yet broken and as yet no hair grew upon his upper lip. He was made to 'fag' for Morris, although the latter was careful not to make this too obvious in either Drinkwater's or Cranston's presence. This treatment served chiefly to terrorise the weak into a cringing obsequiousness that may possibly have served them well if they entered public life, but was no training for the officers of a man o'war.

One night, black and blue from a beating by Morris, the unfortunate White had lain unable to sleep. Tears had come to him and he lay quietly sobbing in the subterranean blackness of the cockpit.

On deck it had come on to rain. Drinkwater slipped below for his tarpaulin and found the boy weeping. For a moment he stood listening in the darkness, then, remembering Morris discovering him in identical circumstances, he went over to the boy.

'What's the matter, Chalky?' be enquired softly. 'Are you sick?'

'N-no, sir.'

'Don't 'sir' me, Chalky… it's me, Nat… what's the matter?'

'Nnn… nothing, Nnn… Nat… it's nothing.'

It was not very difficult for Nathaniel to guess the person responsible for the boy's misery, but it was a measure of his worldliness that he assumed the crime fouler than mere bullying.

'Is it Morris, Chalky?'

The silence from the hammock had an eloquence of its own.

'It is isn't it?'

A barely perceptible 'Yes' came out of the gloom.

Drinkwater patted a thin and shaking shoulder. 'Don't worry, Chalky, I'll fix him.'

'Thanks… N… Nat,' the boy choked and as Drinkwater crept away he heard a barely audible whisper: 'Oh mmm… mother…'

Returning to duty Nathaniel Drinkwater received a rebuke from Lieutenant Skelton for leaving the deck.

The following day was Sunday and after divine service the watch below were piped to dinner. Drinkwater found himself at mess with Morris. Several other midshipmen were in the cockpit struggling with their salt pork. One of them was Cranston.

Drinkwater swallowed the remains of his blackstrap and then addressed Morris in tones of deliberate formality.

'Mr Morris, as you are senior midshipman in this mess I have a request to make.'

Morris looked up. A warning sounded in his brain as he recalled the last time Drinkwater had uttered such formal words to him. Although he had scarcely exchanged any word with his enemy beyond the minimum necessary to the conduct of the vessel he regarded Drinkwater with suspicion.

'Well what is it?'

'Simply that you cease your abominable tyranny over young White.'

Morris stared at Drinkwater. He flushed, then began casting angrily about.

'Why the damned little tell-tale, wait till I get hold of him…' he rose, but Drinkwater objected.

'He told me nothing Morris, but I'm warning you: leave him alone…'

'Ah, so you fancy him do you… like that fancy tart you've got at Falmouth…'

Drinkwater hadn't expected that. Then he remembered Threddle in the boat and the letter lying in his sea- chest… for a second he was silent. It was too long. He had lost the initiative.

'And what will you do, Mister bloody Drinkwater?' Morris was threatening him now.

'Thrash you as I did before…' maintained Drinkwater stoutly.

'Thrash me, be damned you had a cudgel…'

'We both had single st…' Drinkwater never finished the sentence. Morris's fist cracked into his jaw and he fell backwards. His head hit the deck. Morris leapt on him but he was already unconscious.

Morris stood up. Revenge was sweet indeed but he had not yet finished with Drinkwater. No, a more private and infinitely more malevolent fate would be visited on him, but for the present Morris was content… he had at least re-established his superiority over the bastard.

Morris dusted himself off and turned to the other midshipmen.

'Now you other bastards. Remember ye'll get the same treatment if you cross me.'

Cranston had not moved but remained seated, his grog in his hand. He brought the patient wisdom of the lower deck to confound Morris.

'Are you threatening me, Mr Morris?' he asked in level tones, 'because if you are I shall report you to the first lieutenant. Your attack on Mr Drinkwater was unprovoked and constituted an offence for which you would flog a common seaman. I sincerely hope you have not fatally injured our young friend, for if you have I shall ensure you pay the utmost penalty the Articles of War permit.'

Morris grew as pallid as Cyclops's topsail. Such a long speech from a normally silent man delivered with such sonorous gravity gripped him with visceral fear. He looked anxiously at the prostrate Drinkwater.

Cranston turned to one of the other occupants of the mess. 'Mr Bennett, be so good as to cut along for the surgeon!'

'Yes, yes, of course…' The boy dashed out.

Morris stepped towards Drinkwater but Cranston forestalled him. 'Get out!' he snapped with unfeigned anger.