An Eye of the Fleet

Sandwich carried Admiral Rodney, the man responsible for all this puissance. Behind the battleships a couple of cutters and a schooner, tenders to the fleet, followed like dogs in the wake of their master. Then in a great mass came the convoy of troopships, storeships, cargo vessels with an escort of four frigates and two sloops of war. Cyclops's station on the inshore bow of the convoy made her the nearest frigate to the rear division of battleships and the most advanced ship of the convoy itself.

From his elevated position Drinkwater looked out to larboard. Eight or nine leagues distant, slightly dun coloured in the westering sun, the coast of Portugal was clearly visible. His eyes raked over the horizon casually and he was about to descend to the deck when his attention was caught by an irregularity. A small speck of white almost abeam of them was set against the backdrop of the coast. He nudged the seaman and pointed.

'Sail, sir,' the man responded matter-of-factly.

'Yes — I'll hail,' then in as manly a voice as he could muster: 'Deck there!'

Faintly the voice of Keene, the third lieutenant came back, 'Aye, aye?'

'Sail eight points to larboard!' Drinkwater reached for the backstay and began his spectacular hand over hand descent. In the excitement of the strange sail nobody noticed him.

'Signal from flag, sir,' said Lieutenant Keene to Captain Hope as Drinkwater came aft.

'Well?'

'Our number. Chase.'

'Acknowledge,' said the Captain, 'Mr Keene put the ship before the wind.'

Drinkwater assisted making up the answering signal as the lieutenant turned to bellow orders through his speaking trumpet. Bosun's mates chivvied the people and the helm was put up. Cyclops swung to the east, the braces rattling through the sheaves as the yards swung round.

'All sail if you please Mr Keene.'

'Aye, aye, sir!' There was enthusiasm in the lieutenant's voice and a ripple of excitement ran through the ship. Free of the constrictions necessary in keeping station the frigate spread her wings. Clew and bunt-lines were cast off the pins as the topmen spread out along the footropes loosening the canvas. As the master's mates stationed at the bunt of each sail waved to the deck the order was given to sheet home. The topgallants billowed, collapsed and billowed again as the waisters tallied on to the halliards and the yards rose from the caps. Cyclops leaned to the increase of power, the hempen rigging drew tight and the vessel began to tremble gently as she gathered speed. The frigate surged through the dark Atlantic, the white vee of her wake creaming out from under her transom.

On deck the watch changed and the waist cleared as men, drawn on deck by the excitement, went below again.

Drinkwater found the captain staring at him. 'Sir?' he ventured.

'Mr, er…'

'Drinkwater, sir.'

'Ahh. Mr Drinkwater take a glass to the foremasthead and see what you make of her. D'you think you can do that?'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater took from a rack an exceedingly battered telescope which was provided by a generous Navy Board for the exclusive use of the ship's 'young gentlemen'. He started for the foremast rigging.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he returned to the deck. Aware that Hope was testing his ability he had waited until he had something positive to report.

He touched his hat to the captain.

'She's a brig, sir. Not flying colours, sir.'

'Very well, Mr Drinkwater.'

'See her from the deck now, sir,' drawled Devaux who had come up on deck.

The captain nodded. 'Clear away the bow chasers, Mr Devaux…'

Drinkwater too could see the two masted vessel they were bearing down upon. He watched for the bright spot of colour that must surely appear soon to denote her nationality. A dozen other telescopes were endeavouring to glean the same information. A red speck rose to her peak, red with a white cross.

'Danish!' A dozen people snapped out simultaneously.

Cyclops tore down on her quarry and on a nod from Hope a gun barked from forward, its smoke rolling slowly ahead of the onrushing frigate.

A white spout rose ahead of the Danish ship. It was a cable short but it had the desired effect as the Dane backed his main topsail and hove to.

'Mr Devaux, you'll board.'

Orders flew. Where previously every idler in the ship had been intently watching the chase, chaos erupted. Out of this apparent disorder the main and forecourses rose in their bunt-lines and groups of organised men appeared to lower the lee quarter boat as Cyclops turned to back her main topsail.

Devaux shouted more orders and Drinkwater heard his own name in the confusion.

'Get in that boat, cully!' roared the first lieutenant and Nathaniel ran to the waist where a net had been flung over the side. The boat's crew were aboard but extra seamen armed with cutlasses were swarming down into her. Drinkwater cocked a foot over the rail, caught the leg of his trousers on a belaying pin and heard the fabric rip. But this time it did not seem to matter.

He scrambled down into the boat. To his surprise Devaux was already there, still shouting.

'Where in God's name is Wheeler?' he roared at nobody in particular. Then as the red-coated marine lieutenant and six of his men clumsily descended the netting, their Tower muskets tangling in the cordage, 'Come on you bloody lobsters!' Devaux yelled to the appreciative grins of the seamen. Lieutenant Wheeler resented the insult to his service, but he was unable to retaliate due to his preoccupation with getting himself and his hanger into the boat without a total loss of dignity.

'Shove off! Out oars! Give way together and put your backs into it!'

The big boat drove forward and Devaux pushed the tiller into Drinkwater's hand.

'Take her alongside his lee side and keep her there.' He turned to Wheeler, 'She's a neutral so don't board unless you hear me shout.' He raised his voice, 'Bosun's mate!' The petty officer with the armed seamen stood up in the bow.

'Sir?'

'Make no attempt to board unless I need help — if I shout I want the whole bloody lot of you!'

The seamen grinned and fingered their blades. Minutes later Drinkwater's cracking voice was bellowing 'Oars!… Toss Oars!… Hook on!' Lieutenant Devaux leapt for the Dane's chains. For a second or two his elegant legs dangled incongruously, then he had hoisted himself to the deck of the brig.

The boat bounced up and down the side of the strange ship. Occasionally a towheaded face looked curiously overside at them. All in the boat were nervous. A few cannon balls dropped from the rail would plummet through the boat's planking. It seemed to Drinkwater that the first lieutenant had been gone hours. He watched the rail advance and recede as the Atlantic shoved the boat up the Dane's side then dropped her down again. He looked anxiously at Wheeler. The marine officer just smiled, 'Don't worry, cully. When the Hon John is in trouble he'll squeal.'

At last, to his infinite relief, Drinkwater saw Devaux's legs swing over the rail. He heard the lieutenant's suave voice, all trace of coarseness gone,

'Yer servant ma'am,' and the next instant he had tumbled into the boat. He grabbed the tiller from Drinkwater without ceremony.

'Shove off!… Oars!… Give way together and pull you buggers!' Devaux crouched in the stern, his body bent with urgency.

'Pull! Pull! Pull like you'd pull a Frenchman off Yer mother!' The men grinned at the obscenity. Devaux knew his business and the seamen bent their oar looms with effort, the blades sprang from the water and flew forward for the next stroke. Astern of them the Dane made sail. Once Devaux looked back and, following his gaze, Drinkwater made out a flash of colour where a woman waved.

'Wheeler,' said Devaux, 'we've work to do.' Quite deliberately Devaux told Wheeler the news. He knew the men within hearing would pass it on to the lower deck. Equally he knew Hope would not bother to do so, only a garbled version might reach the innermost recesses of Cyclops unless Devaux disseminated the information himself. These men could shortly be called upon to die and the first lieutenant sought