An Eye of the Fleet

head as he struggled to his feet again. Weakness overcame him and he was filled with the overwhelming desire simply to lie down. He rolled on to his back, half submitting to the impulse. A man ran past him with a musket. He dropped to one knee and fired at the horseman, now turning to make another pass. It was Sharples. He discharged the musket and half dragged Drinkwater closer to the mill. The horseman swerved and rode off to attack four seamen fighting back to back and already going down before the slashing sabres.

Drinkwater got to his feet. He saw Devaux and Wheeler with a group of men forming a defensive group. He pointed and Sharples nodded. Suddenly another man had joined them. It was Morris. He pushed Drinkwater who staggered back against the mill. Sharples turned and thrust the barrel of his musket between them. Morris fired his pistol and Sharples doubled over, a great hole in his chest. Drinkwater was dazed, his vision blurred. He comprehended nothing.

Another horseman rode up and slashed at them. Morris turned away, running round the corner of the mill. The horseman followed. Drinkwater took one brief look at Sharples. He was dead.

He looked up again, the little group round the two lieutenants had grown. In a blind panic he put down his head and ran, dodging among the whirling sabres and stamping horses' legs with animal instinct.

The rebel cavalry had played out their advantage of surprise. Used as they were to attacking lonely farms or ambushing parties of raw Tory militia the horsemen were used to speedy and uncontested victory. Having fought the intruders for some minutes the surviving seamen steadied. Devaux was among them his teeth bared in a snarl of rage. They began to rally, their cutlasses slashing back at the horses or the riders' thighs, concentrating on the bright red spot which, through the swirling dust, marked where the marines were forming a disciplined centre of resistance.

The American officer felt his squadron's will to fight was on the ebb. Seeking to rally his force he yelled out: 'Tarleton's quarter, my lads! Give the bastards Tarleton's quarter!' This reference to the leader of the British Legion, a force of Loyalist Americans under British officers, who let not a rebel escape them if they could help it, had its effect and they renewed their attack. But the resistance of the British was now established and the Americans gradually drew off, reining in their steaming horses just out of short musket range.

Slowly the dust subsided and the two contending parties glared at each other across a no-man's-land of broken bodies and hamstrung horses. Then the enemy wheeled their mounts and vanished into the trees as swiftly and silently as they had come.

The news of the arrival of La Creole off the Galuda came as no surprise to Hope. On receiving Cranston's intelligence the captain ordered Skelton to the mainmast cap to watch the enemy privateer. It was with some relief that the lieutenant reported that La Creole had stood offshore towards the late afternoon thus buying valuable time for the British. Why she had done so Hope could only guess, possibly the enemy commander wanted time to make preparations, perhaps he did not think he had been observed and wished to make his attack the following day. Perhaps, and Hope hardly dare believe this, perhaps Cyclops had not been spotted and La Creole was working her patient way southward still searching. At all events the captain was too old a campaigner to worry when fate had dealt him a card he did not expect.

The appearance of La Creole enabled him to make up his mind in one direction. He would recall Devaux and the landing party immediately. The indecision that had manifested itself earlier and annoyed Devaux was gone now for it had been caused, not by senility, but lack of faith in his orders. Hope ordered the garrison of Fort Frederic to be withdrawn and the frigate's defences strengthened against a night boat attack.

At a conference of officers he called for a volunteer to take the message of recall to Devaux. The pitifully small group of officers regarded the silent forest visible through the stern windows with misgiving.

'I'll go,' said Cranston at last.

'Well done, Mr Cranston. I shall endeavour to do everything possible for you for such a service. Will no one else support Mr Cranston…?'

'There's no need, sir. I'll take the blackamoor.'

'Very well, you may draw what you require from the purser and small arms from Lieutenant Keene. Good luck to you.'

The officers shuffled with relief at Cranston filling such a dangerous office. When they had gone Hope poured himself a glass of rum and wiped his forehead for the thousandth time that day.

'I'll be bloody glad when Devaux and Wheeler get back… I pray heaven they're all right…' he muttered to himself…

The landing party reached their bivouac of the previous night dragging with them the remnants of their expedition. The men collapsed on the banks of the creek to bathe their wounds or drink the bloody water. The badly injured groaned horribly as the mosquitoes renewed their assaults and several became delirious during the night.

Drinkwater slept badly. Although unwounded beyond a bruised shoulder from the flat of a sabre and the endemic scratches collected on the way, the heat, fatigue and events of the preceding hours had taken their toll. He had marched from the mill in a daze, his mind constantly fastening unbidden on images of Threddle lying dead in the gloaming and Sharples stiff with blackened blood in the heat of noon. Between these two corpses floated Morris, Morris with a pistol still smoking in his hand, Morris with the smile of triumph on his face and, worst of all, the superimposition of Morris over his image of Elizabeth.

He fought hard to retain her face in his mind's eye but it faded, faded beyond recall so that he thought he might go mad in this forested nightmare through which they trudged.

And when night came there was no rest, for the mosquitoes reactivated the exhausted nervous system, constantly recalling to wakefulness the mind and the body that only wished to sleep. Death, thought Nathaniel at that midnight moment, would be a blessed relief.

Wheeler, too, slept little. He constantly patrolled his outposts, apprehensive lest the enemy renew their attack on the sleeping men. He shook his head sadly as a grey dawn revealed the encampment. The men were tattered, their limbs scarred and gashed by briars and branches, dried blood blackening improvised bandages and flies settling on open wounds.

Several of the wounded were delirious and Devaux ordered litters improvised and an hour after dawn the party moved off, resuming its painful march.

At mid-morning they found Cranston and Achilles.

The negro had been tied to a tree and flayed alive. His back was a mass of flies. Hagan, himself badly wounded limped forward and cut the body down. Achilles was still alive, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

Cranston had evidently put up a fight. He had been hanged from a tree but it was obvious he had been dead before the rebels strung him up. Or at least Devaux hoped so. Scarce a man there refrained from vomiting at the sight of the mutilation inflicted on Cranston's body. Devaux found himself wondering if the man had a wife or a mistress… and then he turned away.

Wheeler and Hagan laid the negro gently on the ground, brushing the flies from his face. Devaux stood beside him and touched his shoulder. Wheeler stood up. 'Bastards,' he choked.

Achilles opened his eyes. Above him he saw the scarlet coat and gold gorget. His hand moved slightly in salutation before dropping back in death.

The two officers had the midshipman cut down and crudely buried with the negro, then the column pressed on.

In the evening they emerged from the forest and staggered down to the landing jetty. Wheeler could raise no protest when he saw no men in the little fort and Devaux felt relief flood through him. Relief from the tension of independent command, and relief that very soon he would see the comfortable old face of Henry Hope.

All Nathaniel Drinkwater saw was the frigate, dark and strangely welcoming in the twilight and he waited impatiently for the boat to ferry him off.

'Are you all right, Nat?'

It was little White, sunburned and bright from new responsibility.

Drinkwater looked at him. It did not seem possible that they belonged to the same generation.

'Where's Cranston?' asked White.

Drinkwater raised a tired arm and pointed at the surrounding forest. 'Dead in the defence of His Majesty's