An Eye of the Fleet (25 page)

He shook off the oppressive feeling. He began shouting orders to Hagan and the seamen to put Fort Frederic into a state of defence . . .

Cyclops
was a ferment of activity. As “a precautionary measure” Devaux had her topgallant masts struck down so that they might not appear above the surrounding trees. Three boat guns and few swivel guns were mounted in Fort Frederic of which Wheeler, losing his earlier misgivings, was appointed commandant. He embraced the post with enthusiasm and it was not long before properly-appointed sentinels were mounted and patrols were sent out into the surrounding woods. Wheeler's
only regret was that Hope forbade him to hoist British colours over the fort.

‘It is conceivable that we may have to abandon the post in haste, I have no wish to appear to surrender a British fort,' Hope explained, and with that Wheeler had to be content.

As a precaution against attack from seaward the long-boat was sent to cruise on the bar commanded by a midshipman or a master's mate. The other boats were variously employed ferrying men and stores ashore.

After twenty-four hours no contact had been made with friend or foe and Hope decided to despatch an expedition inland to reconnoitre. A spring had been secured to the frigate's cable so that her broadsides might bear on either bank, up, or down stream. But it was from seawards that the captain expected trouble and a lookout was kept at the main-topmast cap. From here the long-boat was assiduously watched.

That second evening
Cyclops
had been placed in a defensive position and the final preparations were made by rigging boarding nettings. These extended from the ship's rails to lines set up between the lower yard-arms. As the sun set and the red ensign fluttered down from
Cyclops
's stern the sick, brought on deck for some air, were taken below as the bites of the mosquitoes rendered their position on deck untenable. But the insects that infested the forested banks of the Galuda River boarded unperturbed. The restless moans of the sick and hale as they endured the torment of the biting parasites floated away from the frigate over the twilit water, punctuating the sinister stillness of the surrounding foliage.

Thus did
Cyclops
pass two nights waiting for some news of British or Loyalist forces.

The following morning Wheeler was relieved of his command to take over the entire marine detachment in support of Lieutenant Devaux and a party of seamen who were to undertake a probe inland. It was a desperate attempt by Hope to fulfill his orders; if the prophet would not go to the mountain then some attempt must be made to bring the mountain to Mahomet . . .

Thus reasoned the captain as he wiped his perspiring forehead. He poured himself a glass of rum grog and walked aft. The slick waters of the Galuda bubbled under
Cyclops
's stern, chuckling round the rudder which moved slightly with a faint creak and soft grind of tiller chains.

In the corner of his vision he could just see the landing party forming up after disembarking. He saw Wheeler throw out an advanced picket under Hagan and lead off with the rest of the marines. In a less precise column he saw Midshipman Morris follow with a squad of seamen. Midshipman Drinkwater brought up the rear followed by a file of marines under their corporal. The head of the column had already disappeared in the trees when he saw Devaux, after addressing a few final words to Keene left as fort-commander, look back at the ship then take to his heels in chase of his independent command . . .

Hope tossed off the rum and looked seawards. The longboat was down there under Cranston. Skelton was the only other commissioned officer left on board. With a surprising pang of affection he thought anxiously of Devaux and the gaudy but competent Wheeler . . . he thought idly of young Drinkwater . . . so very like himself all those years ago . . . he sighed again and watched the Galuda run seawards . . . out to the open sea . . . ‘From whence cometh our help' he muttered in silent cynicism to himself . . .

Drinkwater had little taste for the inland expedition. Once they had lost sight of the frigate it seemed to him that the whole party were instantly endangered. The sea was their element and as if to confirm his worries seamen ahead of him, men as nimble as monkeys in the rigging, were tripping and stumbling over tree-roots and cursing at the squelching morasses that they began immediately to encounter. He was also over-shadowed by the earnest entreaties of Achilles who had refused to come with Drinkwater but who impressed upon the midshipman the folly of going inland. Drinkwater therefore plunged into the forest with his nerves already highly strung, with every fibre of his being suspicious of the least faltering of the head of the column, of the least exclamation no matter how innocent the cause . . .

Despite the nature of the terrain the landing party made good progress along the track that led inland from Fort Frederic. About five miles from the fort they came across a cleared area with a saw pit and indications of some sort of logging post. There was also evidence that its occupants had made a hurried departure. A few miles further on they came across a small plantation with a clapboard house and outbuildings. The house had been partially burned and the outbuildings
were a mass of flies. Carrion eaters were feeding on the decomposing corpses of cattle.

The stink of that burnt out farm seemed to linger with the little column as it made its way through the oppressively empty pine barrens. They crossed a creek that drained north into the Galuda and set up a bivouac for the night. The men were now grumbling in a murmur that soon became an uproar as the mosquitoes began biting. Devaux had no zeal for this kind of service but Wheeler, able to assume the unofficial leadership through his military training, was revelling in his own element. Watches were posted and the party settled down to eat what they had brought with them.

About sunset, having ascertained his watch duties for the night, Drinkwater went off into the surrounding forest to answer a call of nature. After the sweaty progress of the day, the incessant grumbling of the men and the struggle to keep them going towards the end, he was feeling very tired. Squatting over a tree root he became light-headed, convinced that this was not really him, Nathaniel Drinkwater, who squatted thus, emptying his bowels God knows how many thousand miles from home. He looked down. Was this soggy, mossy undergrowth really the fabulous Americas? It seemed so illogical as to be impossible. As so often happened at such private moments he found his thoughts drifting to Elizabeth. Somehow the image of her was more real than this ludicrous actuality . . .

So strongly was he able to fantasise that he seemed to see himself telling Elizabeth of how, once, many years ago, he had sat across the roots of a pine tree in somewhat indelicate circumstances in far away Carolina thinking of her. So disembodied were his instincts that he failed to hear the crack of a dead branch behind him.

Even when Morris pitched him forward on his face he did not react immediately. Only when it dawned on him that he had his face pressed in a mossy hummock and his naked backside revealed to the world did he come to.

‘Well, well, what a pretty sight . . . and how very appropriate, eh, Threddle?'

At the sound of that voice and the mention of the name he tried to turn, putting an arm out to push himself up. But he was too late. Even as he took his weight a foot came down on his elbow and his arm collapsed. Almost instinctively he drew his
knees up, twisting his head round.

Threddle stood on his arm, a cutlass in his hand. There was a cruel glitter in his eyes and the corners of his mouth smirked.

‘What
shall
we do with him, eh, Threddle?' Morris remained behind him, out of sight but Drinkwater felt horribly exposed, like a mare being steadied for the stallion. As if reading his own fear Morris kicked him. The wave of nausea that spread upwards from his genitals was overwhelming, he fought for breath as the vomit emptied from him. Suddenly he felt Threddle's hand in his hair, twisting his face round so that he faced his own excrement . . .

‘What a very good idea, Threddle . . . and then we will bugger him, eh? That'll cut him down to his proper size . . .' Drinkwater had no power to resist, all he could do was clamp his mouth and eyes shut. But even as the smell of his own ordure grew stronger in his nostrils the pressure of Threddle's hand ceased and pulled sideways. The big man fell with a squelchy thud.

‘What the . . . ?' Morris half turned to see in the gathering twilight the figure of a man holding a boarding pike. Its end gleamed wetly as it was pointed at Morris.

‘Sharples!'

Sharples said nothing to Morris. ‘Are you all right Mr Drinkwater?' The midshipman rose unsteadily to his feet. He leaned against the tree and, with trembling fingers, buttoned his ducks. Still not trusting his voice he nodded dumbly.

Morris made a move but ceased as Sharples jabbed the point at his chest.

‘Now
Mister
Morris take the pistol out of your belt and no tricks . . .' Drinkwater lifted his head to watch. It was getting quite dark but there was still light enough to see the furious gleam in Sharple's eyes.

‘No tricks now,
Mister
Morris I want you to place that pistol at Threddle's head and blow his brains out . . .' the voice was vehemently insistent. Drinkwater looked down at Threddle. The pike had pierced his abdomen, entering below the rib cage and ripping through the digestive organs. He was not dead but lay with blood flowing across his belly and gobbets of gore trickling from his mouth. Occasionally his legs twitched weakly and the only thing about him that seemed not to be already half dead were the eyes that screamed a silent protest
and cry for mercy . . .

‘Cock it!' ordered Sharples, ‘Cock it!' He jabbed the pike into Morris's buttocks, forcing the midshipman round to face Threddle. The click of the hammer coming back sounded in Drinkwater's ears. He roused himself. ‘No,' he whispered, ‘for God's sake Sharples, no!' His voice gathered strength but before he could say more Sharples shouted ‘Fire!'

For perhaps a split second Morris hesitated, then the boarding pike made his muscles involuntarily contract. The pistol cracked and Threddle's face disintegrated.

No one moved for perhaps thirty seconds.

‘Oh, my God!' managed Drinkwater at last. ‘What the hell have you done, Sharples?'

The man turned. A soft, childish smile played around his mouth. His eyes were deep pools in the near-night, pools of tears. His voice when it came caught on breathless sobs.

‘It came in the mail, Mr Drinkwater, the mail we got from
Gal'tea
 . . . the letter that tol' me my Kate was dead . . . they
said
she died in chil'birth but I know better'n that, sir . . . I know better'n that . . .'

Drinkwater mastered himself at last. ‘I'm sorry, Sharples, really sorry . . . and thank you for your help . . . But why did you kill Threddle?'

‘Because he's shit, sir,' he said simply.

Morris looked up. His face was deathly white. He began to walk unsteadily back towards the encampment. With a final look at Threddle Sharples followed, then, sensing Drinkwater lagged behind, he turned back.

‘It ain't no good crying over spilt milk, Mr Drinkwater . . .'

‘Shouldn't we bury him?'

Sharples snorted contemptuously. ‘No.'

‘But what am I to tell the first lieutenant . . . ?' Sharples was already tugging him away from the darkening clearing. There was the sound of branches breaking underfoot. Ahead of them they saw Wheeler and two marines, their white cross-belts glowing in the gathering night, close round Morris.

Sharples let go of the boarding pike.

They came up with the others. ‘What's going on?' demanded Wheeler looking pointedly at Morris's hand which still held the pistol. Morris's face remained an impassive mask, he looked through, rather than at, Wheeler.

Drinkwater came up. ‘Just a stupid mistake, Mr Wheeler. I was emptying my bladder when Morris thought I was a rebel . . . Sharples was doing the same thing about ten yards away . . .' he managed a smile. ‘That's right isn't it Morris?'

Morris looked up and Drinkwater felt ice-cold fingers of apprehension round his heart. For Morris smiled. A ghastly, complicit smile . . .

‘If you say so, Drinkwater . . .'

And it was only then that Drinkwater realised that by explaining their actions with lies he had become a party to the crime . . .

At dawn the next morning the camp was astir early with discontent. Unable to comprehend the seemingly pointless purpose of the march, employed outside their own environment and stung into a half-crazy state, the men were now openly mutinous. Devaux did his best to placate them but lacked conviction for he shared their belief, with more justification, that their mission was an ill-conceived waste of time.

‘Well Wheeler,' he said, ‘we may be marching along a fine “military road” but I see few of the fine military upon it, barring your goodself, of course. For my money we may as well retrace our steps before being utterly consumed by these damned bugs.' Here he slapped his face, missing the offending insect and presenting a ludicrous spectacle to those near him.

Wheeler considered the matter and a compromise was reached. They would march until noon then, if they still found nothing, they would turn back.

An hour later they set off . . .

Out on the bar of the Galuda River Midshipman Cranston served biscuit and water to the long boat's crew. Despite their cramped and aching bodies after a night in the boat the seamen were cheerful. Cruising offshore there was either a land or sea breeze and the insect life was negligible. They looked forward to a pleasant day, a yachting excursion comparable with that enjoyed by the wealthy members of the Duke of Cumberland's fleet. It all seemed to have little to do with the rigorous duties of a man o'war. Fitted with a lugsail the longboat cruised with little exertion necessary from her crew. Lulled into such complaisance it was a rude shock to discern the topgallants of a large vessel offshore.