An Eye of the Fleet

Aft of him Drinkwater saw Cranston out on the main yardarm cutting away any gear that bound the two ships together.

Of course, they must prise Cyclops away from the rebel ship.

'We must separate the two ships, Tregembo!'

'Aye zur, but she'm to wind'ard.'

It was true. The wind's pressure was holding La Creole's hull alongside Cyclops as efficiently as if they were lashed together. Drinkwater looked below again and his eyes rested on the anchors. Earlier in the day Devaux had had the hands bending a cable to the sheet anchor as they closed the American coast. All they had to do was to let it go.

'The sheet anchor, Tregembo!' he shouted excitedly, pointing downwards.

Tregembo instantly grasped the idea. They both leapt for the forestay. The anchor was secured to the starboard fore channels by chain. The chains terminated in pear links through which many turns of hemp lashing were passed, securing the anchor to the ship.

Snatching out his knife Tregembo attacked the stock lashing whilst Drinkwater went for that at the crown.

The shouting, screaming mass of struggling men were only feet away from them yet, because La Creole had come aboard on Cyclops's port quarter, the fo'c's'le was a comparative haven. Then someone in the privateer's tops opened fire with a musket. The ball struck the anchor fluke and whined away in ricochet. Sweat rolled off the two men and Drinkwater began to curse his fine idea, thinking the seizing would never part. His head throbbed with the din of battle and the bruise that Morris had given him. Another ball smacked into the deck between his feet. His back felt immensely huge, a target the marksman could not fail to hit at the next shot.

Tregembo grunted, his seizing parted and the sudden jerk snapped the remaining strands of Drinkwater's. The anchor dropped with a splash.

'I hope to God the cable runs…'

It did, enough at least to permit the anchor to reach the bottom where it bit, broke loose and bit again, snubbing the two ships round head to the current that runs inexorably north east up the coast of Florida and Carolina. The current pulled each hull, but Cyclops held, her anchor bringing her up against the force of it. Drinkwater moved aft. He was the first to detect a grinding between the ships that told where La Creole slowly disengaged herself from her foe.

'She's off lads, we've got 'em!' One head turned, then another, then all at once the British rallied, seeing over their heads the movement in the enemy's ship.

They took up the cry and with renewed vigour carried on the work of stabbing and cutting their adversaries. Looking over their shoulders the Franco-Americans began to realise what was going on. The militia were the first to break, running and scrambling over friend and foe alike.

La Creole scraped slowly aft, catching frequently and only tearing herself finally clear of Cyclops after a minute or two. Sufficient time elapsed for most of her men to return to her, for the exhausted British let them go. The final scenes of the action would have been comic if they had not occurred in such grim circumstances with the dead and dying of three nations scattered about the bloody deck.

Several men leapt overboard and swam to where their comrades were lowering ropes over the side. One of these was the French commander who gesticulated fiercely from the dramatic eminence of the frigate's rail before plunging overboard and swimming strongly for his own ship.

On Cyclops's gangway a negro was on his knees, rolling his eyes, his hands clasped in an unmistakable gesture of submission. Seeing Drinkwater almost alone in the forepart of the ship the negro flung himself down at his feet. Behind him Devaux seemed bent on running him through, a Devaux with blood lust in his eyes…

'No, no massa, Ah do surrenda sah! Jus' like that Gen'ral Burgoyne, sah, Ah do surrenda!' It was Wheeler who eventually overcame the first lieutenant and brought him to his senses by telling him the captain wanted him aft. The negro, thankfully ignored, attached himself to Drinkwater.

The two ships were now two cables apart. Neither of them was in a fit condition to re-engage immediately.

'That,' said Captain Hope to Mr Blackmore as they emerged from the defensive hedge made for them by Wheeler and his marines, 'That was a damned close thing!'

The sailing master nodded with unspoken relief. Hope barked a short, nervous laugh.

'The devil'll have to wait a little longer for us, eh Blackmore?'

La Creole drifted astern.

'Cut that cable, mister,' ordered Hope when Devaux eventually reached him, 'and find out who let the anchor go.'

'Might I suggest we weigh it, sir…'

'Cut it, dammit, I want to re-engage before he spreads the news of our arrival on the coast.'

Devaux shrugged and turned forward.

Hope turned to the sailing master. 'We're in soundings then.'

'Aye, sir,' said the old man recollecting himself.

'Make sail, we'll finish that rebel first.'

But La Creole was already shaking out her canvas. She was to leeward and soon under way. Fifteen minutes later Cyclops was before the wind, two and three-quarter miles astern of the privateer.

That was still the position when darkness set in.

Below, in the cockpit Drinkwater sat having his shoes polished by the negro. He was unable to rid himself of the encumbrance and in the aftermath of action no one seemed to bother about the addition to Cyclops's complement.

'What's your name?' he asked fascinated by the ebony features of the man.

'Mah name, sah, is Ach'lles and Ah am your serbant…'

'My servant?' said Drinkwater astonished.

'Yes sah! You sabe ma life. Ach'lles your best fre'nd.'

Chapter Fourteen The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men…

March 1781

Daylight revealed Cyclops alone within the circle of her visible horizon. La Creole had given her the slip and Captain Hope was furious that her arrival on the coast would now be broadcast. He now had no alternative but to execute his orders as speedily as possible.

He waited impatiently for noon and Blackmore's meridian altitude. When the master had made his calculations he brought the answer to Hope. 'Our latitude is thirty-four degrees twelve minutes north, sir. That is,' he glanced at his slate, That is forty-three miles to the north of our landfall although we shall have to weather Frying Pan shoals.'

Hope nodded. 'Very well, make the necessary arrangements and be kind enough to attend me with the first lieutenant… and, er, Mr Blackmore, have young Drinkwater bring your charts down here.'

When the master reappeared with Devaux, Hope cordially invited them to sit. Drinkwater spread the charts out on the table between them.

'Ah hhmmm, Mr Drinkwater,' began Hope. 'The first lieutenant has informed me that it was you that let go the sheet anchor during the late action with La Creole?'

'Er, yes, sir. I was assisted by Tregembo, fore-topman, but I take full responsibility for the loss of the anchor…'

'Quite so, quite so…'