An Eye of the Fleet (26 page)

Cranston put the long boat off before the wind and headed for the Galuda estuary. He was certain the stranger was
La Creole
 . . .

The sun had almost reached its zenith when they came upon the mill. It was another weatherboard edifice and indicated the presence of human habitation since the farther trail was better cleared and recently trod. Nevertheless it was deserted despite a partially-filled sack of flour and a dumped cartload of indian corn.

‘That's been left in a deuced hurry,' said Wheeler pointing to the pile.

‘Very perceptive,' said Devaux annoyed that, just as it seemed he would have his way and return they were going to find people.

‘D'ye think they fled at our approach?'

‘I don't know . . .' said Devaux flatly.

‘Shall we feed the men before proceeding further, for I don't like this.' Wheeler's confidence was shaken for the first time. Devaux noted this and pulled himself together. He was in command of the party. First they'd eat and then decide what was to be done.

‘D'ye attend to it, Wheeler, and a couple of men at the top of the mill will set our minds at ease, eh?'

‘Aye, aye,' answered the marine officer, biting his lip with chagrin that he had overlooked such a very elementary precaution.

The men settled to another meal of dried biscuit and water. They lay in languid poses scratching themselves and grumbling irritably. Having posted his sentinels Wheeler flung himself down in the shade.

All morning Drinkwater had toiled on in the heat trying desperately to forget the events of the night before. But his testicles ached and from time to time the gorge rose in his throat. He choked it manfully down and avoided all contact with Morris. Sharples swung along with the seamen, a benign smile on his face. Drinkwater was filled with the overwhelming sense of relief when they lay down in the shade of the mill. He closed his eyes and drifted into semi-consciousness.

Then the rebel horse were on them.

The raiders swept into the clearing in a sudden thunder of hooves and dust and the sparkle of sabres. Most of the British
were caught lying prone. Surprised in the open the seamen were terrified at the appearance of horses. The flying hooves and flaring nostrils were unfamiliar and horrifying to these men who gave their lives without protest in the claustrophobic darkness of a gundeck. They defended themselves as best they might, stark terror adding to their confusion.

Wheeler and Devaux came to their feet blaspheming.

‘To me, sergeant! Oh, Christ Jesus! To
me
sergeant, damn you!' The marines began to fight their way through to the base of the mill, coalescing in little groups to commence a methodical discharge of musketry.

The general mêlée lasted ten long minutes in which a third of the seamen had been cut down and there was a scarce a man in the entire force who had not received a cut or graze.

Drinkwater leaped up with the rest. He had brought a cutlass with him and lugged it out, its clumsy unbalanced blade awkward to his hand. A man on a bay plunged towards him. Drinkwater parried the blow but the impetus of the horse threw him over and he rolled to one side to avoid the hooves. A pistol ball raised dust by his head as he struggled to his feet again. Weakness overcame him and he was filled with the overwhelming desire simply to lie down. He rolled on to his back, half submitting to the impulse. A man ran past him with a musket. He dropped to one knee and fired at the horseman, now turning to make another pass. It was Sharples. He discharged the musket and half dragged Drinkwater closer to the mill. The horseman swerved and rode off to attack four seamen fighting back to back and already going down before the slashing sabres.

Drinkwater got to his feet. He saw Devaux and Wheeler with a group of men forming a defensive group. He pointed and Sharples nodded. Suddenly another man had joined them. It was Morris. He pushed Drinkwater who staggered back against the mill. Sharples turned and thrust the barrel of his musket between them. Morris fired his pistol and Sharples doubled over, a great hole in his chest. Drinkwater was dazed, his vision blurred. He comprehended nothing.

Another horseman rode up and slashed at them. Morris turned away, running round the corner of the mill. The horseman followed. Drinkwater took one brief look at Sharples. He was dead.

He looked up again, the little group round the two lieutenants had grown. In a blind panic he put down his head and ran, dodging among the whirling sabres and stamping horses' legs with animal instinct.

The rebel cavalry had played out their advantage of surprise. Used as they were to attacking lonely farms or ambushing parties of raw Tory militia the horsemen were used to speedy and uncontested victory. Having fought the intruders for some minutes the surviving seamen steadied. Devaux was among them his teeth bared in a snarl of rage. They began to rally, their cutlasses slashing back at the horses or the riders' thighs, concentrating on the bright red spot which, through the swirling dust, marked where the marines were forming a disciplined centre of resistance.

The American officer felt his squadron's will to fight was on the ebb. Seeking to rally his force he yelled out: ‘Tarleton's quarter, my lads! Give the bastards Tarleton's quarter!' This reference to the leader of the British Legion, a force of Loyalist Americans under British officers, who let not a rebel escape them if they could help it, had its effect and they renewed their attack. But the resistance of the British was now established and the Americans gradually drew off, reining in their steaming horses just out of short musket range.

Slowly the dust subsided and the two contending parties glared at each other across a no-man's-land of broken bodies and hamstrung horses. Then the enemy wheeled their mounts and vanished into the trees as swiftly and silently as they had come.

The news of the arrival of
La Creole
off the Galuda came as no surprise to Hope. On receiving Cranston's intelligence the captain ordered Skelton to the mainmast cap to watch the enemy privateer. It was with some relief that the lieutenant reported that
La Creole
had stood offshore towards the late afternoon thus buying valuable time for the British. Why she had done so Hope could only guess, possibly the enemy commander wanted time to make preparations, perhaps he did not think he had been observed and wished to make his attack the following day. Perhaps, and Hope hardly dare believe this, perhaps
Cyclops
had not been spotted and
La Creole
was working her patient way southward still searching. At all events the
captain was too old a campaigner to worry when fate had dealt him a card he did not expect.

The appearance of
La Creole
enabled him to make up his mind in one direction. He would recall Devaux and the landing party immediately. The indecision that had manifested itself earlier and annoyed Devaux was gone now for it had been caused, not by senility, but lack of faith in his orders. Hope ordered the garrison of Fort Frederic to be withdrawn and the frigate's defences strengthened against a night boat attack.

At a conference of officers he called for a volunteer to take the message of recall to Devaux. The pitifully small group of officers regarded the silent forest visible through the stern windows with misgiving.

‘I'll go,' said Cranston at last.

‘Well done, Mr Cranston. I shall endeavour to do everything possible for you for such a service. Will no-one else support Mr Cranston . . . ?'

‘There's no need, sir. I'll take the blackamoor.'

‘Very well, you may draw what you require from the purser and small arms from Lieutenant Keene. Good luck to you.'

The officers shuffled with relief at Cranston filling such a dangerous office. When they had gone Hope poured himself a glass of rum and wiped his forehead for the thousandth time that day.

‘I'll be bloody glad when Devaux and Wheeler get back . . . I pray heaven they're all right . . .' he muttered to himself . . .

The landing party reached their bivouac of the previous night dragging with them the remnants of their expedition. The men collapsed on the banks of the creek to bathe their wounds or drink the bloody water. The badly injured groaned horribly as the mosquitoes renewed their assaults and several became delirious during the night.

Drinkwater slept badly. Although unwounded beyond a bruised shoulder from the flat of a sabre and the endemic scratches collected on the way, the heat, fatigue and events of the preceding hours had taken their toll. He had marched from the mill in a daze, his mind constantly fastening unbidden on images of Threddle lying dead in the gloaming and Sharples stiff with blackened blood in the heat of noon. Between these two corpses floated Morris, Morris with a pistol still smoking in his hand, Morris with the smile of triumph on
his face and, worst of all, the superimposition of Morris over his image of Elizabeth.

He fought hard to retain her face in his mind's eye but it faded, faded beyond recall so that he thought he might go mad in this forested nightmare through which they trudged.

And when night came there was no rest, for the mosquitoes reactivated the exhausted nervous system, constantly recalling to wakefulness the mind and body that only wished to sleep. Death, thought Nathaniel at that midnight moment, would be a blessed relief.

Wheeler, too, slept little. He constantly patrolled his outposts, apprehensive lest the enemy renew their attack on the sleeping men. He shook his head sadly as a grey dawn revealed the encampment. The men were tattered, their limbs scarred and gashed by briars and branches, dried blood blackening improvised bandages and flies settling on open wounds.

Several of the wounded were delirious and Devaux ordered litters improvised and an hour after dawn the party moved off, resuming its painful march.

At mid-morning they found Cranston and Achilles.

The negro had been tied to a tree and flayed alive. His back was a mass of flies. Hagan, himself badly wounded limped forward and cut the body down. Achilles was still alive, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

Cranston had evidently put up a fight. He had been hanged from a tree but it was obvious he had been dead before the rebels strung him up. Or at least Devaux hoped so. Scarce a man there refrained from vomiting at the sight of the mutilation inflicted on Cranston's body. Devaux found himself wondering if the man had a wife or a mistress . . . and then he turned away.

Wheeler and Hagan laid the negro gently on the ground, brushing the flies from his face. Devaux stood beside him and touched his shoulder. Wheeler stood up, ‘Bastards,' he choked.

Achilles opened his eyes. Above him he saw the scarlet coat and gold gorget. His hand moved slightly in salutation before dropping back in death.

The two officers had the midshipman cut down and crudely buried with the negro, then the column pressed on.

In the evening they emerged from the forest and staggered down to the landing jetty. Wheeler could raise no protest when
he saw no men in the little fort and Devaux felt relief flood through him. Relief from the tension of independent command, and relief that very soon he would see the comfortable old face of Henry Hope.

All Nathaniel Drinkwater saw was the frigate, dark and strangely welcoming in the twilight and he waited impatiently for the boat to ferry him off.

‘Are you all right, Nat?'

It was little White, sunburned and bright from new responsibility.

Drinkwater looked at him. It did not seem possible that they belonged to the same generation.

‘Where's Cranston?' asked White.

Drinkwater raised a tired arm and pointed at the surrounding forest. ‘Dead in the defence of His Majesty's dominions,' he said, aware that cynicism was a great relief, ‘with his bollocks in his mouth . . .'

Somehow he found White's shocked look amusing . . .

If the remnants of the landing party expected rest after their labours they were to be disappointed. After a bare three hours exhausted sleep several found themselves rowing a guard-boat cautiously down stream to prevent a surprise attack by
La Creole
or her boats. Hope was especially concerned since he had seen the enemy stand southwards.

Although he could not know it
La Creole had
missed
Cyclops
in her search, but the last of the onshore breeze the next afternoon brought her back. An hour before sunset she had anchored on the bar. There was no longer any doubt that she had found her quarry.

The twenty four hours that had elapsed since the return of the landing party had proved tiring and trying for all. Without exception the members of the expedition had about them the smell of defeat and their low morale affected the remaining men. The immediate failure of the mission was forgotten in the urgent necessity of alleviating the sufferings of the wounded and preparing the frigate for sea. The topgallant masts were re-hoisted and the upper yards crossed. It may well have been this that discovered her to
La Creole
but no one now cared. Action was infinitely preferable to lying supinely in the stinking jungle-surrounded Galuda a moment more than was necessary. Appleby and his mates worked harder than anyone else, patching up the walking wounded so that they might man their guns again, or easing the sufferings of the badly wounded with laudanum.