An Eye of the Fleet

Hearing the shouts and screams from above Lieutenant Skelton was already on his way, leading the counter attackers out of the Stygian gloom of the gun-deck. Behind him Drinkwater drew his dirk and followed.

On the fo'c's'le the French privateer officer was achieving a measure of success. His men had swung the starboard bow chaser round and were preparing to fire it. He was determined to destroy the British frigate if he could not take her. If he could force her aground and fire her… already she was head downstream… it occurred to him that she should be broadside on…

He turned to shout orders to two men remaining in the boat to bring combustibles on board, then he swung round to rally his men for a final attempt to secure the upper deck in the wake of the bow chaser's discharge.

A British lieutenant appeared in front of him leading a fresh body of men that had appeared from nowhere. The lieutenant slashed at the Frenchman but before Skelton's blade even started its downward path the latter executed a swift and fatal lunge.

'Hélas!' he shouted. Skelton reeled backwards carrying with him two seamen coming up behind. The French officer's eyes gleamed in triumph and he turned to order his men to discharge the cannon.

'Tirez!' A thin youth confronted him. The Frenchman grinned maliciously at the dirk his opponent held. He extended his sword arm. Drinkwater waited for the lunge but the other recovered and the two stood for a second eyeing each other. The Frenchman's experience weighed the midshipman… he lunged.

Skelton's blood flowed freely across the deck. The French officer slipped as Drinkwater half turned to avoid the blade. The sword point, raised involuntarily by his opponent's loss of balance, caught his cheek and ripped upwards, deflected out of the flesh by the cheekbone. Drinkwater had gone icy cold in that heart-beat of suspension, he already knew he had his man as his fencer's instinct told him the other was losing his balance. Now the sting of the wound unleashed a sudden fury in him. He stabbed blindly and savagely, giving the thrust impetus by the full weight of his body. The dirk passed under the man's biceps and buried itself in his shoulder, piercing the right lung. The Frenchman staggered back, recovering his balance too late, dropping his sword, blood pouring from his wound.

Drinkwater flung away the dirk and grabbed the fallen sword. It leapt in his hand, balanced exquisitely on the lower phalange of his forefinger. He threw himself into the fight screaming encouragement to the seamen struggling for possession of the deck.

In twenty minutes it was over. By then Cyclops had brought up to her spring and Drinkwater, the only officer left standing forward was joined by Devaux and they began securing the prisoners…

Instead of travelling slowly downstream beam on, the frigate's spring had the effect of re-anchoring her by the stern since it was led out of an after gunport and secured to the anchor cable below the cut. This fortuitous circumstance permitted Hope to set the topsails so that the vessel strained at her anchor as the sails bellied out to the terral.

Drinkwater hurried aft touching his forehead.

'All the boarders secured, sir, what orders?'

Hope looked astern. He could make out the splashes of men struggling in the water and the taut spring rising dripping with water from the tension on it.

Devaux hurried up. 'Get those boats cut down and you, Drinkwater, get the spring cut…'

The two ran off. 'Mr Blackmore!'

'Sir?'

'Take the conn, have a man in the chains and a quartermaster back at the wheel. Pass word to the leadsman that I want the soundings quietly.' Hope emphasised the last word as Keene came up. 'Work round the deck Mr Keene, not a word from anyone… anyone, do you understand?'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater ran up again. 'Spring cut, sir,' he reported.

'Well done, Mister.' Hope rubbed his hands gleefully, like a schoolboy contemplating a prank. 'I'm going out after that fella, Mister Drinkwater,' he confided, pointing ahead to somewhere in the darkness where La Creole awaited them. 'She'll be expecting us under her cutting out party — we'll give 'em a surprise, eh cully?' Hope grinned.

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'Now run off and find Devaux and tell him to man the starboard battery and have topmen aloft… oh, and men at the braces…' Drinkwater ran off with his message.

Blackmore was letting the wind and current take the frigate downstream, trusting that the run of water would serve her best. As the ship cleared the wooded headlands he adjusted the course and trimmed the yards. Drinkwater was ordered forward to keep a lookout for La Creole.

He strained his eyes into the night. Small circles danced in his vision. He elevated his glance a little from the horizon and immediately, on the periphery of his retina a darker spot appeared to starboard. He clapped the battered glass to this eye.

It was La Creole and at anchor too!

He raced aft: 'She's two points to starboard, sir, and at anchor!'

'Very well, Mr Drinkwater:' then to Blackmore, 'starboard a point.'

Blackmore's voice answered, 'Starboard a point, sir. By my reckoning you are just clear of the bar…'

'Very well. Mr Drinkwater, get a cable on the second bower!'

Cyclops slipped seawards. La Creole was just visible against the false dawn. Hope intended to cross La Creole's stern, rake her and put his helm down. As he turned to starboard and ran alongside the enemy ship he would anchor. It was his last anchor, except for the light kedge and it was a gamble. He explained to his principal officers what he intended…

Drinkwater found two bosun's mates and a party of tired seamen hauling an eight-inch rope up to the ring on the second bower. The two ships were closing fast.

'Hurry it up there,' he hissed between clenched teeth. The men looked up at him sullenly. After what seemed an interminable delay the cable was secured.

Returning to report the anchor ready Drinkwater passed the prisoners. In the haste they had been trussed up to the foremast bitts and a sudden thought occurred to him. If these men shouted a warning, Cyclops's advantage would be lost. Then another idea came to him.

He ordered the marine sentries to herd them below, all of them except the French officer who lay groaning on the deck. Drinkwater still had the man's sword in his hand. He cut the rope securing the man to the bitts.

'Up mister!' he ordered.

'Merde,' growled the man.

Drinkwater pointed the sword at his throat: 'Up!'

The man rose reluctantly to his feet, swaying with dizziness. The midshipman prodded him aft, he ordered the last marine to go below to slit the throat of the first man that so much as squealed. Afterwards his own ruthless barbarity surprised him but at the time it seemed the only logical thing to do under the uncompromising prompting of a desire to survive.

He arrived on the quarterdeck. 'What the devil?' queried a startled Hope, to be reassured by a sight of his own midshipman, a drawn sword in his hand, behind the Frenchman.

'Anchor's ready, sir. I thought this fella would help allay any suspicions, sir. Shout to the enemy, sir, tell 'em the ship's his…'

'An excellent idea Drinkwater. Speaks English, eh? Must do with that polyglot rebel crew. Probably uses French with his commander. Prick him a little, sir,' said the captain.

The man jerked. Hope addressed him in English, his voice uncharacteristically sinister and brutal:

'Now you dog. I have an old score to settle with your race. My brother and my sister's husband died in Canada and I've an un-Christian hankering for revenge. You tell your commander that this ship is yours and you'll anchor under his lee. No tricks now, I've the best surgeon in the fleet and he'll see to you, you've my word on that but,' here Hope looked significantly at Drinkwater and paused, 'but one false word and it's your last. D'ye understand, canaille?'

The man winced again. 'Oui,' he nodded, breathing through clenched teeth. Drinkwater shoved him to the main chains. Hope turned away.