An Eye of the Fleet

'No tricks now, Mister Morris I want you to place that pistol at Threddle's head and blow his brains out…' the voice was vehemently insistent. Drinkwater looked down at Threddle. The pike had pierced his abdomen, entering below the rib cage and ripping through the digestive organs. He was not dead but lay with blood flowing across his belly and gobbets of gore trickling from his mouth. Occasionally his legs twitched weakly and the only thing about him that seemed not to be already half dead were the eyes that screamed a silent protest and cry for mercy…

'Cock it!' ordered Sharples. 'Cock it!' He jabbed the pike into Morris's buttocks, forcing the midshipman round to face Threddle. The click of the hammer coming back sounded in Drinkwater's ears. He roused himself. 'No,' he whispered, 'for God's sake Sharples, no!' His voice gathered strength but before he could say more Sharples shouted 'Fire!'

For perhaps a split second Morris hesitated, then the boarding pike made his muscles involuntarily contract. The pistol cracked and Threddle's face disintegrated.

No one moved for perhaps thirty seconds.

'Oh, my God!' managed Drinkwater at last. 'What the hell have you done, Sharples?'

The man turned. A soft, childish smile played around his mouth. His eyes were deep pools in the near-night, pools of tears. His voice when it came caught on breathless sobs.

'It came in the mail, Mr Drinkwater, the mail we got from Gal'tea… the letter that tol' me my Kate was dead… they said she died in chil'birth but I know better'n that, sir… I know better'n that…'

Drinkwater mastered himself at last. 'I'm sorry, Sharples really sorry… and thank you for your help… But why did you kill Threddle?'

'Because he's shit, sir,' he said simply.

Morris looked up. His face was deathly white. He began to walk unsteadily back towards the encampment. With a final look at Threddle Sharples followed, then, sensing Drinkwater lagged behind, he turned back.

'It ain't no good crying over spilt milk, Mr Drinkwater…'

'Shouldn't we bury him?'

Sharples snorted contemptuously. 'No.'

'But what am I to tell the first lieutenant…?' Sharples was already tugging him away from the darkening clearing. There was the sound of branches breaking underfoot. Ahead of them they saw Wheeler and two marines, their white cross-belts glowing in the gathering night, close round Morris.

Sharples let go of the boarding pike.

They came up with the others. 'What's going on?' demanded Wheeler looking pointedly at Morris's hand which still held the pistol. Morris's face remained an impassive mask, he looked through, rather than at, Wheeler.

Drinkwater came up. 'Just a stupid mistake, Mr Wheeler. I was emptying my bladder when Morris thought I was a rebel… Sharples was doing the same thing about ten yards away…' he managed a smile. 'That's right isn't it Morris?'

Morris looked up and Drinkwater felt ice-cold fingers of apprehension round his heart. For Morris smiled. A ghastly, complicit smile…

'If you say so, Drinkwater…'

And it was only then that Drinkwater realised that by explaining their actions with lies he had become a party to the crime…

At dawn the next morning the camp was astir early with discontent. Unable to comprehend the seemingly pointless purpose of the march, employed outside their own environment and stung into a half-crazy state, the men were now openly mutinous. Devaux did his best to placate them but lacked conviction for he shared their belief, with more justification, that their mission was an ill-conceived waste of time.

'Well Wheeler,' he said, 'we may be marching along a fine 'military road' but I see few of the fine military upon it, barring your good self, of course. For my money we may as well retrace our steps before being utterly consumed by these damned bugs.' Here he slapped his face, missing the offending insect and presenting a ludicrous spectacle to those near him.

Wheeler considered the matter and a compromise was reached. They would march until noon then, if they still found nothing, they would turn back.

An hour later they set off…

Out on the bar of the Galuda River Midshipman Cranston served biscuit and water to the longboat's crew. Despite their cramped and aching bodies after a night in the boat the seamen were cheerful. Cruising offshore there was either a land or sea breeze and the insect life was negligible. They looked forward to a pleasant day, a yachting excursion comparable with that enjoyed by the wealthy members of the Duke of Cumberland's fleet. It all seemed to have little to do with the rigorous duties of a man o'war. Fitted with a lug-sail the longboat cruised with little exertion necessary from her crew. Lulled into such complaisance it was a rude shock to discern the topgallants of a large vessel offshore.

Cranston put the longboat off before the wind and headed for the Galuda estuary. He was certain the stranger was La Creole…

The sun had almost reached its zenith when they came upon the mill. It was another weatherboard edifice and indicated the presence of human habitation since the farther trail was better cleared and recently trod. Nevertheless it was deserted despite a partially-filled sack of flour and a dumped cartload of Indian corn.

'That's been left in a deuced hurry,' said Wheeler pointing to the pile.

'Very perceptive,' said Devaux annoyed that, just as it seemed he would have his way and return, they were going to find people.

'D'ye think they fled at our approach?'

'I don't know…' said Devaux flatly.

'Shall we feed the men before proceeding further, for I don't like this.' Wheeler's confidence was shaken for the first time. Devaux noted this and pulled himself together. He was in command of the party. First they'd eat and then decide what was to be done.

'D'ye attend to it, Wheeler, and a couple of men at the top of the mill will set our minds at ease, eh?'

'Aye, aye,' answered the marine officer, biting his lip with chagrin that he had overlooked such a very elementary precaution.

The men settled to another meal of dried biscuit and water. They lay in languid poses scratching themselves and grumbling irritably. Having posted his sentinels Wheeler flung himself down in the shade.

All morning Drinkwater had toiled on in the heat trying desperately to forget the events of the night before. But his testicles ached and from time to time the gorge rose in his throat. He choked it manfully down and avoided all contact with Morris. Sharples swung along with the seamen, a benign smile on his face. Drinkwater was filled with the overwhelming sense of relief when they lay down in the shade of the mill. He closed his eyes and drifted into semi-consciousness.

Then the rebel horse were on them.

The raiders swept into the clearing in a sudden thunder of hooves and dust and the sparkle of sabres. Most of the British were caught lying prone. Surprised in the open the seamen were terrified at the appearance of horses. The flying hooves and flaring nostrils were unfamiliar and horrifying to these men who gave their lives without protest in the claustrophobic darkness of a gun-deck. They defended themselves as best they might, stark terror adding to their confusion.

Wheeler and Devaux came to their feet blaspheming.

'To me, sergeant! Oh, Christ Jesus! To me sergeant, damn you!' The marines began to fight their way through to the base of the mill, coalescing in little groups to commence a methodical discharge of musketry.

The general melee lasted ten long minutes in which a third of the seamen had been cut down and there was scarce a man in the entire force who had not received a cut or graze.

Drinkwater leaped up with the rest. He had brought a cutlass with him and lugged it out, its clumsy unbalanced blade awkward to his hand. A man on a bay plunged towards him. Drinkwater parried the blow but the impetus of the horse threw him over and he rolled to one side to avoid the hooves. A pistol ball raised dust by his