An Eye of the Fleet Page 4

  Hope and Blackmore stared anxiously astern where the crippled Spaniard wallowed. Wreckage hung over her side as she swung to starboard. If the Spanish captain was quick he could rake Cyclops, his whole broadside pouring in through the latter's wide stern and the shot travelling the length of the crowded decks.

  It was every commander's nightmare to be raked, especially from astern where the comparative fragility of the stern windows offered little resistance to the enemy shot. The wreckage over her side was drawing the Spaniard round. One of her larboard guns fired and splinters shot up from Cyclops's quarter. Certainly someone appreciated the opportunity.

  Cyclops's helm was put down in an attempt to bring Cyclops on a parallel course but the spanker burst as the Spaniard fired, then the mizen topmast went and Cyclops lost the necessary leverage to force her stern round.

  It was a ragged broadside compared with that of the British but its effects were no less lethal. Although nearly a quarter of a mile distant, the damaged enemy had fought back with devastating success. As Captain Hope surveyed the damage with Devaux a voice hailed them:

  'Deck there! Breakers on the lee bow!'

  Although the British frigate had started her turn the loss of her after sails deprived her of manoeuvrability. There were anxious faces on the quarterdeck.

  The officers looked aloft. The lower mizen mast still stood, broken off some six feet above the top. The wreckage was hanging over the larboard side, dragging the frigate back that way while the gale in the forward sails still drove the ship inexorably downwind to where the San Lucar shoal awaited them. Axes were already at work clearing the raffle.

  Hope saw a chance and ordered the helm hard over to continue the swing to port. Devaux looked forward and then at the captain.

  'Set the cro'jack, bend on a new spanker and get the fore tops'l clewed up!' The captain snapped at him. The first lieutenant ran forward screaming for topmen, anyone, pulling the upperdeck gun crews from their pieces, thrusting bosun's mates here and there…

  Men raced for the rigging… disappeared below, hurrying and scurrying under the first lieutenant's hysterical direction.

  'Wheeler, get your lobsters to brace the cro'jack yard!'

  'Aye, aye, sir!'

  Wheeler's booted men stomped away with the mizen braces as the topmen shook out the sail. A master's mate unmade the weather sheet, he was joined by another, they both hauled as two or three seamen under a bosun's mate loosed the clew and bunt-lines. The great sail exploded white in the moonlight, flogging in the gale; then it drew taut and Cyclops began to swing.

  Still in his top Drinkwater could see the shoal now, a line of grey ahead of them perhaps four or five miles 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.

  A resplendently attired officer was footing a bow at Devaux and proferring his sword. Devaux, impatient at the inactivity of the Spaniards, ignored him. He made signs at the officer who had first secured the heaving line and a party of seamen were soon heaving in the four-inch rope. The moon emerged again and Devaux turned to Drinkwater. He nodded at the insistently bobbing Spaniard.

  'For God's sake take it. Then return it—we need their help.'

  Nathaniel Drinkwater thus received the surrender of the thirty-eight gun frigate Santa Teresa. He managed a clumsy bow on the plunging deck and as graciously as he knew how, aware of his own gawkiness, he handed the weapon back. The moonlight shone keenly on the straight Toledo blade.

  Devaux was shouting again: 'Men! Men! Hombres! Hombres!' The four-inch had arrived on board and the weight of the big hawser was already on it. Gesticulating wildly and miming with his body Devaux urged the defeated Spaniards to strenuous activity. He pointed to leeward. 'Muerto! Muerto!'

  They understood.

  To windward Hope was tacking Cyclops. It was vital that Devaux secured the tow in seconds. The four-inch snaked in. Then it snagged. The big ten-inch rope coming out of the water had caught on something under Santa Teresa's bow.

  'Heave!' screamed Devaux, beside himself with excitement. Cyclops would feel the drag of that rope. She might fail to pay off on the starboard tack…

  Suddenly it came aboard with a rush. The floating hemp rose on a wave and swept aboard as Santa Teresa's bow fell into a steep trough.

  Drinkwater was astonished. Where she had been rolling wildly the seas had been breaking harmlessly alongside. He sensed something was wrong. That sea had broken over them. He looked around. The sea was white in the moonlight and breaking as on a beach. They were in the breakers of the San Lucar shoal. Above the howl of the wind and the screaming of the Spanish officers the thunder of the Atlantic flinging itself on to the bank was a deep and terrifying rumble.

  Devaux sweated over the end of the ten-inch rope. 'Get a gun fired quick!'

  Drinkwater pointed to a cannon and mimed a ramming motion. 'Bang!' he shouted.

  The sailors understood and a charge was quickly rammed home. Drinkwater grabbed the linstock and jerked it. It fired. He looked anxiously at Cyclops. Several Spaniards were staring fearfully to leeward. 'Dios!' said one, crossing himself. Others did the same.

  Slowly Devaux breathed out. Cyclops had tacked successfully. The hemp rose from the water and took the strain. It creaked and Drinkwater looked to where Devaux had passed a turn round Santa Teresa's fore mast and wracked lashings on it. More were being passed by the sailors. The Santa Teresa trembled. Men looked fearfully at each other. Was it the effect of the tow or had she struck the bottom?

  Cyclops's stern rose then plunged downwards. The rope was invisible in the darkness which had again engulfed them but it was secured and Santa Teresa began to turn into the wind. Very slowly Cyclops hauled her late adversary to the south-west, clawing a foot to windward for every yard she made to the south.

  Devaux turned to the midshipman and clapped him on the back. His face broke into a boyish grin.

  'We've done it, cully, by God, we've done it!'

  Drinkwater slid slowly to the deck, the complete oblivion of fatigue enveloping him.

  Chapter Five

  February—April 1780

  The Evil that Men do…

  Rodney's fleet lay at anchor in Gibraltar Bay licking its wounds with a sense of satisfaction. The evidence of their victory was all about them, the Spanish warships wearing British colours over their own.

  The battle had annihilated Don Juan de Langara's squadron. Four battleships had struck by midnight. The Admiral in Fenix surrendered to Rodney but Sandwich had pressed on. At about 2 a.m. on the 17th she overhauled the smaller Monarcha and compelled her to strike her colours with one terrible broadside. By this time, as Cyclops struggled to secure Santa Teresa in tow, both fleets were in shoaling water. Two seventy-gun ships, the San Julian and San Eugenio, ran helplessly aground with terrible loss of life. The remainder, Spanish and British, managed to claw off to windward.

  In the confusion of securing the prizes one Spanish battleship escaped as did the other frigate. With the exception of the San Domingo and the escapees, De Langara's squadron had fallen into Rodney's hands. It was a bitter blow to Spanish naval pride, pride that had already suffered humiliation when late the previous year the treasure flota from the Indies had fallen to marauding British cruisers.

  Now the great ships lay at anchor. Fenix was to become Gibraltar and others were to be bought into the British service. Their presence boosted the morale of General Elliott's hard pressed garrison and forced the besiegers to stop and think. Behind the fleet the convoy had arrived safely and the military dined their naval colleagues. Midshipmen, however, at least those of Cyclops dined aboard, on hard tack, pease pudding and salt pork.

  During her stay at Gibraltar Cyclops became a happy ship. She had come through a fleet action with distinction and the experience had united her crew into a true ship's company. Her casualties had been light, four dead and twenty-one wounded, mostly by splinters or falling wreckage. Every morning as the hands turned up there was not a man among them who did not cast his eyes in the direction of the Santa Teresa. The Spanish frigate was their own, special badge of honour.

  The men worked enthusiastically repairing the damage to Cyclops. It was a task that fascinated Drinkwater. The elements of seamanship he already knew were augmented by the higher technicalities of masting and rigging and when Lieutenant Devaux turned his
attention to the Santa Teresa his knowledge was further increased. The first lieutenant had taken a liking to Drinkwater after their sojourn together on the captured frigate. Revived from his faint Devaux had found him an eager and intelligent pupil once his stomach had been filled.

  Cyclops's crew spared no effort to efface as much of the damage their own cannon had done to the Santa Teresa so that the frigate presented as good an appearance as possible to the prize court. Presided over by Adam Duncan, Rodney's Vice-Admiral, this august body was holding preliminary hearings into the condition of the fleet's prizes before despatching those suitable back to England. Once this intelligence had been passed to the hands they worked with a ferocious energy.

  The intensive employment of Cyclops's crew meant that the midshipmen were often absent and rarely all on board at the same time. For the first time Drinkwater felt comparatively free of the influence of Morris. Occupied as they all were there was little opportunity for the senior midshipman to bully his hapless juniors. The anticipation of vast sums of prize money induced a euphoria in all minds and even the twisted Morris felt something of this corporate elevation.

  Then, for Drinkwater, all this contentment ended.

  Cyclops had lain in Gibraltar Bay for eleven days. The repairs were completed and work was almost finished aboard the Santa Teresa. Her spars were all prepared and it was time to send up her new topmasts. Devaux had taken almost the entire crews of Cyclops over to the Spaniard to make light of the hauling and heaving. Topmen and waisters, marines, gunners, fo'c's'le men were all set to man the carefully arranged tackles and set up the rigging.

  Captain Hope was ashore with Lieutenant Keene and only a handful of men under the master kept the deck. The remainder, off-duty men, slept or idled below. A drowsy atmosphere had settled over the frigate exemplified by Mr Blackmore and the surgeon, Appleby, who lounged on the quarterdeck, their energies spent by recent exertions.

  Drinkwater had been sent with the launch to pass the convoy orders to a dozen transports in the outer bay. These ships were bound for Port Mahon and Cyclops would be escorting them.