An Eye of the Fleet

when challenged as to its success, was compelled to report failure. His explanation was received with disbelief, the Admiral firmly maintaining the Carolinas were in British hands. Hope also wished to rid himself of the Continental currency but this was too much for Admiral Arbuthnot who studied the captain through rheumy eyes.

'You arrive on my station, sir, occupy a British post without authority, fail in a mission you claim is secret yet was given you by the captain of a frigate and now you wish me to rid you of an embarrassing sum of rebel currency.' The admiral rose. 'You may retain the stuff until you report to y'r own flag officer, Admiral… Admiral…'

'Kempenfelt, sir.'

'Exactly.' Arbuthnot appeared to consider the matter closed.

'But sir, I have to refit my to'gallants…'

'Your topgallants, sir, are your topgallants and not mine… I suggest you contact Admiral Kempenfelt on the matter. Good day, sir.'

Hope left.

Eventually Arbuthnot's secretary received instructions from London to render such assistance as might be necessary to the frigate Galatea. A note was appended to the effect that due to political circumstances of the greatest importance, Galatea had been retained in home waters and her mission undertaken by Cyclops, Captain Henry Hope, R.N.

The secretary therefore prepared an order for her to come in and draw such stores as she required and refit her gear. Arbuthnot signed the order without comment since he was at that time prone to sign almost anything, being nearly blind. On receipt of these orders Cyclops moved to a berth at the Manhattan Dockyard to commence her repairs. On that evening Hope and Devaux dined together. Over their port, several cases of which had been removed from La Creole, Hope drew Devaux's attention to a decision that the weather and the frigate's cranky tophamper had deferred.

'Assuming that we eventually receive definite orders, Devaux, we have to consider the matter of a replacement for Skelton. Cranston was a loss to us and the Service as a whole…'

'Yes,' agreed Devaux nodding. His mind slid back to the dense forest and the sight of Cranston's mutilated body… He tore his mind away from the grisly memory.

'D'ye have any opinions?' asked the Captain.

The first lieutenant recollected himself. 'Well sir, the next senior is Morris. His journals are poorly kept, though he's served the six years… I consider him quite unsuitable and I would appreciate his removal from the ship… indeed I threatened him with it I seem to remember… I am of the opinion that young Drinkwater is a likely candidate for an acting lieutenancy.' He paused. 'But surely, sir, there's a junior in the fleet hereabouts…' Devaux indicated the riding lights of several warships visible through the stern windows.

'An Admiral's favourite d'ye mean, Mr Devaux?' asked Hope archly.

'Just so, sir.'

'But Admiral Arbuthnot informed me that the ship is under Kempenfelt's flag. Who am I to question his decision?' he enquired with mock humility, and then in a harder tone, 'besides I am not disposed to question him on the matter of my midshipmen.' He sipped his port. 'Furthermore I submitted a list of casualties that clearly indicated the state of our complement of officers. If he does not see fit to appoint someone he can go to the devil.' He paused. 'Besides I rather suspect Kempenfelt would approve our choice…' Hope smiled benignly and tossed off the glass.

Devaux raised an eyebrow. 'Old Blackmore will be pleased, he's had Drinkwater under his wing since we left Sheerness.' The two officers refilled their glasses.

'Which,' said Devaux choosing his moment, 'brings me to the matter of Morris sir. I'd be obliged if a transfer could be arranged…'

'That is a little drastic, is it not, Mr Devaux. What's behind this request?'

Devaux outlined the problem and added the remark that in any case Morris would resent serving under Drinkwater. Hope snorted.

'Resent! Why I've resented serving under half the officers I've submitted to. But Morris is fortunate, Mr Devaux. Had I known earlier I'd have broken him. Another time I'll trouble you to tell me as soon as you have any inkling of this kind of thing… it's the bane of the Service and produces officers like that loathsome Edgecumbe…' Hope added expansively.

'Yes, sir,' Devaux changed the subject hastily. 'What are the Admiral's intentions, sir?'

Again Hope snorted. 'Intentions! I wish he had some. Why he and General Clinton sit here in New York waving the Union Flag with enough soldiers to wipe Washington off the face of the earth. Clinton shits himself with indecision at the prospect of losing New York and saves face by sending General Philips into Virginny.

'However I hear that Arbuthnot's to be relieved…'

'Who by, sir?'

'Graves…'

'Good God, not Graves…'

'He's a pleasant enough man which is more than I found Arbuthnot.'

'He's an amiable incompetent, sir. Wasn't he court-martialled for refusing battle with an Indiaman?'

'Yes, back in 'fifty-seven… no 'fifty-six. He was acquitted of cowardice but publicly reprimanded for an error of judgement under the 36th Article of War… you must admit some Indiamen pack a punch…' Both officers smiled ruefully at memories of La Creole.

'D'ye know, John, it's one of the great ironies that on the very day the court at Plymouth sentenced Tommy Graves, a court at Portsmouth got John Byng for a similar offence which was far more strategically justifiable. You know what happened to Byng. They sentenced him under the 12th Article… he was shot on his own quarterdeck…' Hope's voice trailed off.

'Pour encourager les autres…' muttered Devaux. 'Voltaire, sir,' he said in explanation as Hope looked up.

'Ah, that Godless French bastard…'

'Does anyone know what's happened to Cornwallis, sir?'

Hope stirred. 'No! I don't believe any of 'em know anything, John. Now what about my main to'gallant…?'

The next morning Devaux sent for Drinkwater. The lieutenant was staring north up the Hudson River to where the New Jersey Palisades could be seen, catching the early sunlight.

'Sir?'

Devaux turned and regarded the young man. The face had matured now. The ragged line of the wound, rapidly scarring, would hardly alter the flesh over the cheekbones though it might contrast the weathered tan. The figure beneath the worn and patched uniform was spare but fit. Devaux snapped his glass shut.

'That hanger you had off La Creole's lieutenant… D'ye still have it?'

Drinkwater coloured. At the end of the action he had found himself still clasping the small sword. It was a fine weapon and its owner had not survived long after the capture of his ship. Drinkwater had regarded the thing as his own part of the spoil. After all the gunroom officers wallowed in the captured wine for weeks afterwards and he felt the weight of a dirk too useless for real fighting. The sword had found its way to the bottom of his sea-chest where it lay wrapped in bunting. He did not know how Devaux knew this but assumed that omniscience was a natural attribute of first lieutenants.

'Well, sir?' queried Devaux, a note of asperity in his voice.

'Er, yes, sir…I, er, do have it…'

'Then ye'd better clap it on y're larboard hip!'

'Beg pardon, sir?' The young man frowned uncomprehendingly.

Devaux laughed at Drinkwater's puzzled expression. 'The captain is promoting you acting third lieutenant as of now. You may move your chest and effects up on to the gun-deck…' He watched the effect of the news on Drinkwater's face. The lad's mouth dropped open, then closed. He blinked, then smiled back. At last he stammered his thanks.

Cyclops lay at her anchor with Arbuthnot's squadron through May and June. During this time Drinkwater's prime task was to get a new broadcloth coat from a New York tailor. The ship had recruited its complement from