An Eye of the Fleet

away. He became aware of a voice hailing him.

'Foretop there!'

'Aye sir?' he looked over the edge at the first lieutenant staring up at him.

'Aloft and furl that tops'l!'

Drinkwater started up. The fore topsail was already losing its power as the sheets slackened and the clew and bunt-lines drew it up to the yard. It was flogging madly, the trembling mast attesting to the fact that many of its stays must have been shot away.

Tregembo was already in the rigging as Drinkwater forsook the familiar top. He was lightheaded with the insane excitement of the night. When they had finished battling with the sail Drinkwater lay over the yard exhausted with hunger and cold. He looked to starboard. The white line on the bank seemed very near now and Cyclops was rolling as the swell built up in the shoaling water. But she was reaching now, sailing across the wind and roughly parallel with the shoal. She would still make leeway but she was no longer running directly on to the bank.

To the south and west dark shapes and flashes told of where the two fleets did battle. Nearer, and to larboard now, the Spanish frigate wallowed, beam on to wind and sea and rolling down on to the shoal.

Drawn from the gun-deck a party of powder-blackened and exhausted men toiled to get the spare spanker on deck. The long sausage of hard canvas snaked out of the tiers and on to the deck. Thirteen minutes later the new sail rose on the undamaged spars.

Cyclops was once more under control. The cross-jack was furled and the headsail sheets slackened. Again her bowsprit turned towards the shoal as Hope anxiously wore ship to bring her on to the starboard tack, heading where the Spanish frigate still wallowed helplessly.

The British frigate paid off before the wind. Then her bowsprit swung away from the shoal. The wind came over the starboard quarter… then the beam. The yards were hauled round, the head-sail sheets hardened in. The wind howled over the starboard bow, stronger now they were heading into it. Cyclops plunged into a sea and a shower of stinging spray swept aft. Half naked gunners scurried away below to tend their cannon.

Hope gave orders to re-engage as Cyclops bore down on her adversary, slowly drawing the crippled Spaniard under her lee.

Cyclops's guns rolled again and the Spaniard fired back.

Devaux was shouting at Blackmore above the crash of the guns. 'Why don't he anchor, Master?'

'And have us reach up and down ahead of him raking him?' scoffed the older man.

'What else can he do? Besides there's a limit to how long we can hang on here. What we want is offing…'

Hope heard him. Released from the tension of immediate danger now his command was again under control, the conversation irritated him.

'I'll trouble you to fight the ship, Mr Devaux, and leave the tactical decisions to me.'

Devaux was silent. He looked sullenly at the Spanish ship and was astonished at Hope's next order: 'Get a hawser through an after port, quickly man, quickly!' At first Devaux was uncomprehending then the moon broke forth again and the lieutenant followed Hope's pointing arm, 'Look man, look!'

The red and gold of Castile was absent from the stern. The Spanish frigate had struck.

'Cease fire! Cease fire!'

Cyclops's guns fell silent as she plunged past the enemy, the exhausted gunners collapsing with their exertions. But Devaux, all thoughts of arguing dispelled by the turn of events, was once more amongst them, rousing them to further efforts. Devaux shouted orders, bosun's mates swung their starters and the realisation of the Spanish surrender swept the ship in a flash. Fatigue vanished in a trice for she was a war prize if they could save her from going ashore on the San Lucar shoal.

Even the aristocratic Devaux did not despise his captain's avarice. The chance of augmenting his paltry patrimony would be eagerly seized upon. He found himself hoping Cyclops had not done too much damage…

On the quarterdeck Captain Hope was enduring the master's objections. The only person on board who could legitimately contest the captain's decisions, from the navigational point of view, Blackmore vigorously protested the inadvisability of taking Cyclops to leeward again to tow off a frigate no more than half a league from a dangerous shoal.

But the exertions of the night affected men differently. As Blackmore turned away in defeat Hope saw his last opportunity. Shedding years at the prospect of such a prize his caution fell a prey to temptation. After a life spent in a Service which had consistently robbed him of a reputation for dash or glamour, fate was holding out a fiscal prize of enormous magnitude. All he had to do was apply some of the expertise that his years of seagoing had given him.

'Wear ship, Mr Blackmore.'

The captain turned and bumped into a slim figure hurrying aft.

'B… Beg pardon sir.'

Drinkwater had descended from the foretop. He touched his hat to the captain.

'Well?'

'Shoal's a mile to leeward, sir.' For a minute Hope studied the young face: he showed promise.

'Thank you, Mr, er…'

'Drinkwater, sir.'

'Quite so. Remain with me; my messenger's gone…' The captain indicated the remains of his twelve-year-old midshipman messenger. The sight of the small, broken body made Drinkwater feel very light headed. He was cold and very hungry. He was aware that the frigate was manoeuvring close to the crippled Spaniard, paying off downwind…

'First lieutenant's on the gun-deck, see how long he'll be.' Uncomprehending the midshipman hurried off. Below the shadowy scene in the gun-deck was ordered. A hundred gunners lugged a huge rope aft. Drinkwater discovered the first lieutenant right aft and passed the message. Devaux grunted and then, over his shoulder ordered, 'Follow me.' They both ran back to the quarterdeck.

'Nearly ready, sir,' said Devaux striding past the captain to the taffrail. He lugged out his hanger and cut the log ship from its line and called Drinkwater.

'Coil that for heaving, young shaver.' He indicated the long log line coiled in its basket. For an instant the boy stood uncertainly then, recollecting the way Tregembo had taught him he began to coil the line.

Devaux was bustling round a party of sailors bringing a coil of four-inch rope aft. He hung over the taffrail, dangling one end and shouting at someone below. Eventually the end was caught; drawn inboard and secured to the heavy cable. Devaux stood upright and one of the seamen took the log line and secured it to the four-inch rope.

Devaux seemed satisfied. 'Banyard,' he said to the seaman. 'Heave that at the Spaniard when I give the word.'

Cyclops was closing the crippled frigate. She seemed impossibly large as the two ships closed, the rise and fall between them fifteen to twenty feet.

The two ships were very close now. The Spaniard's bowsprit rose and fell, raking aft along Cyclops's side. Figures were visible on her fo'c's'le as the bowsprit jutted menacingly over the knot of figures at the after end of Cyclops. If it ripped the spanker Cyclops was doomed since she would again become unmanageable, falling off before the gale. The spar rose again then fell as the frigate wallowed in a trough. It hit Cyclops's taffrail, caught for an instant then tore free with a splintering of wood. At a signal from Devaux Banyard's line snaked dextrously out to tangle at the gammoning of the bowsprit dipping towards the British stern.

'Come on, boy!' shouted Devaux. In an instant he had leapt up and caught the spar, heaving himself over it, legs kicking out behind him. Without thinking, impelled by the force of the first lieutenant's determination Drinkwater had followed. Below them Cyclops dropped away and was past.

The wind tore at Drinkwater's coat tails as he cautiously followed Devaux aft along the spar. The dangling raffle of gear afforded plenty of handholds and it was not long before he stood with his superior on the Spanish forecastle.