An Eye of the Fleet

'That's as maybe, mister, but it will not stop us all doing our duty,' the captain looked meaningfully round the assembled officers. Their averted gazes and embarrassed complexions further angered him.

He rose and the officers scrambled to their feet. 'You, Mr Devaux, may take such measures as you see fit in the way of precaution. Good night, gentlemen!'

A screech of chairs and buzz of retreat accompanied the departure of the officers. Devaux's words rang in his ears:

'Time will tell, sir, which of us is right…'

The trouble was Hope already knew…

Drinkwater left the dinner with the uncomfortable feeling that he had witnessed something he should not have done. He had hitherto considered Hope's position as unassailable and was shocked by Devaux's outspoken attack. In addition he was surprised at the giggling of some of the dinner guests, particularly Devaux and Wheeler, who seemed in some curious way pleased with what they had achieved. But perhaps it was the face of Blackmore that he remembered most. The old man's white hair was drawn severely back and his face passed the midshipman like a kind of fixed figurehead. The expression it bore as it passed Wheeler and Devaux was one of utter contempt.

Drinkwater followed Cranston below. In the shadows of the orlop an arm reached out and grabbed his elbow. His exclamation was silenced by a face with a commanding finger held to its barely visible lips. It was Sharples.

'What do you want?' whispered Drinkwater, unable to shake off the foreboding engendered by the recent conversation. Somehow the appearance of Sharples, whom he had ignored for months now, came as no surprise.

'Beg pardon, sir. You ought to know I believe Threddle and Mr Morris are hatching something up, sir. Thought you ought to know, sir…' Drinkwater felt his arm released and Sharples melted away in the shadows…

Drinkwater entered the cockpit.

'So you are back from your dinner at the captain's table, eh?'

Morris's voice was loaded with venom. At first Drinkwater did not reply. Then, aware that Cranston was still in the mess he decided to bait his enemy.

'Tell me Morris, why do you hate me?'

'Because, lickspittle, you are less than a dog's turd, yet you have been a source of trouble for me ever since you came aboard this ship. You are an insufferable little bastard…'

Drinkwater's fists clenched and he shot a look at Cranston. The older man was disinterestedly climbing into his hammock. 'I'll call on you for satisfaction when we get to New York for that remark…'

'Ah! But not now, eh? Not so bloody bold without a cudgel are you? Bit more careful of our pretty face since we got that little whore in Falmouth aren't we, or is it because you're keeping company with the officers now, Wheeler's quite a dandy-boy now isn't he…' Drinkwater paled at the allusion to Elizabeth but he held his rage. He saw Cranston, sitting up in his hammock, making negative motions with his hands. Morris was working himself up into a violent rage, a torrent of invective streaming from him in which he worked through every obscenity known to his fertile and warped imagination. Drinkwater grabbed his boat cloak and went on deck…

'Why don't you shut your filthy mouth, Morris?' asked Cranston from the shadows.

But Morris did not hear Cranston. Hatred, blind and unreasoning hatred, burned in his heart with the intensity of fever. There could be no justification for such bitter emotion any more than there was explanation for love. Morris only knew that from thwarted purpose Drinkwater had come to represent all that had dogged Morris's career: ability, charm, affability and a way of inspiring loyalty in others, qualities in which he was lacking.

Morris was a victim of himself: of his own jealousy, of his sexuality and its concomitants. Perhaps it was the onset of disease that upset his mental balance or perhaps the bitter fruits of a warped and twisted passion; a frustrated love that suffered already the convolutions of self-torture by its very perversity.

Chapter Fifteen …Oft Times go Astray…

March — April 1781

If the ship's company of HMS Cyclops expected a dramatic coastline for their landfall they were disappointed. The Carolinian shore was low and wooded. Blackmore, the navigator, had the greatest difficulty in locating the least conspicuous feature with any confidence. In the end the estuary of the Galuda River was found by the longboat scouting inshore.

It was afternoon before the onshore breeze enabled Hope to take the frigate into the shoaling waters with confidence.

Leadsmen hove their lines from the forechains on either bow and the longboat, a loaded four-pounder in her bow, proceeded ahead under Lieutenant Skelton, sounding the channel. Behind her under topsails, spanker and staysails the frigate stood cautiously inshore.

The Galuda River ran into the Atlantic between two small headlands which terminated in sandspits. These twin extensions of the land swung north at their extremity where the river flow was diverted north by the Gulf Stream. Here a bar existed over which the frigate had to be carefully worked.

Once into the estuary the river banks were densely wooded, seamed by creeks and swamps as the Galuda wound inland. Just within the river mouth itself the land was a little higher, reaching an elevation some thirty feet above high water. Here the trees had been removed and Fort Frederic erected.

It was towards the fort that attention aboard Cyclops was directed once the dangers of the bar had been negotiated. The serrated stockade rampart was just visible over the surrounding trees. No Union Flag was visible from its conspicuously naked flagpole.

'Shall I fire a gun, sir?' enquired Devaux.

'No,' replied Hope. The tension in the situation blotted out the memory of their former disagreement. Cyclops crept slowly onwards, the leadsmen's chants droning on. The frigate was abeam of the headlands into the main river; slowly the fort drew abeam. There was not a soul in sight and the very air was pregnant with the desolation of withdrawal.

'Abandoned, by God!'

'We will bring the ship to her bower, Mr Devaux,' said the captain, ignoring Devaux's outburst, 'kindly see to it.'

The longboat was brought alongside and a party of seamen and marines detailed into it. Drinkwater watched the boat pull away from the ship.

A small wooden jetty, obviously for use by the garrison, facilitated disembarkation. His hanger drawn Wheeler advanced his men in open order. Drinkwater watched as they ran forward in a crouching lope. The seamen followed in a ragged phalanx. At the boat the four-pounder covered the assault.

The occupation of Fort Frederic was carried out without a shot. The fort was empty of men, ammunition or provisions of any kind. There was not the slightest clue as to where or when the garrison had gone. But it had a weird, sinister atmosphere about it as some deserted places do. It made the stoutest hearts shiver.

Devaux, who had commanded the landing party turned to Wheeler. 'If he's going to stop here we'd better occupy the place.' Wheeler agreed. 'We can put swivels here and… er, over there. My marines can manage. Will you row a guard-boat all the time?' Devaux smiled at the scarlet-coated figure, gorget glinting in the sunshine. Wheeler was nervous. Devaux looked around him. 'This is a bloody business, Wheeler, and I like none of it, I'll report to Hope. Yes of course we'll row a guard. I wouldn't leave a dog in a place like this…' Wheeler shivered despite the sun's heat. He was not given to premonitions but he was put in mind of another American river. Wheeler had lost his father on the Monongahela…

He shook off the oppressive feeling. He began shouting orders to Hagan and the seamen to put Fort Frederic into a state of defence…

Cyclops was a ferment of activity. As 'a precautionary measure' Devaux had her topgallant masts struck down so that they might not appear above the surrounding trees. Three boat guns and a