The Flying Squadron (34 page)

‘Who commands you?' Drinkwater asked. Ashen-faced, Lieutenant Tucker lolled in the chair, eyes closed, panting with pain. His roughly bandaged hand with a tourniquet above the wrist lay across his breast. Quilhampton stood anxiously at his shoulder.

It was growing dark in the cabin and other matters clamoured for attention as night fell. ‘Come, sir, answer. You may see the surgeon the moment you have told me what I want to know. Who commands you?'

Eyes closed, Tucker shook his head. Drinkwater and Quilhampton exchanged glances. ‘It's Stewart, isn't it, eh? Captain Stewart?' Drinkwater raised his voice, cutting through the fog of agony clouding Tucker's consciousness, ‘late of the
Stingray
.'

Tucker's eyes flickered open; the small affirmative was enough for Drinkwater. ‘Is there a frigate with you?'

There was no doubt, even in his befuddled state, of Tucker's surprise. ‘Frigate . . .' he murmured, adding a second word that Drinkwater failed to catch.

‘What did he say?'

‘Didn't hear, sir, answered Quilhampton, bending over the prisoner.

‘Come, sir, you're a damned pirate. You ain't a naval officer and can't expect exchange in a cartel. Answer me and I'll do my best to see you aren't thrown into Dartmoor Gaol. In the meantime you need the services of my
surgeon. Is there a frigate in the offing? An American frigate?'

Something like comprehension passed a shadow over Tucker's face, he moved on the chair, tried to draw himself upright, shook his head and muttered, ‘Not an American . . .'

‘He said, “Not an American . . .” '

‘I heard him, James . . . A
French
frigate, then? Is that it? There's a French frigate to the eastward?'

Tucker's face crumpled, he closed his eyes tightly, and sank into the chair. The bandages wrapped around his stump were sodden with blood.

‘Good God!' Drinkwater ran a hand through his hair, ‘ 'Tis worse than I thought . . .' He looked up at Quilhampton. ‘James, I'll stake my hat the lost Indiamen and a French frigate are to the eastward . . . I'll have to explain later. Be a good fellow and see to Tucker here.'

‘I'll get him below, sir . . .'

‘No, he's a brave fellow, we'll spare him the indignity of Pym's cockpit. Have Pym operate on him here.'

Drinkwater stood for a moment beside the wounded American and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You've betrayed nothing, Mr Tucker, I assure you, merely confirmed my suspicions. Mr Quilhampton will attend to you, he knows what it's like to lose a hand. Give him some laudanum, James, I fear I've used him barbarously.'

Running on deck Drinkwater cast a quick look about him. Night was upon them. The convoy was to the north-north-west, etched black against the last gleam of twilight. Both
Patrician
and
Cymbeline
had detached themselves from the convoy and lay hove-to in its wake. All that remained of the schooner
Patrician
had crushed was some wreckage, dark debris on the grey surface of the ocean. Thorowgood was busy putting a prize-crew aboard the other which, a master's mate in one of
Cymbeline
's boats was just then reporting to Lieutenant Gordon, had proved to be the
Shark
of Baltimore.

‘Tell Captain Thorowgood to rejoin the convoy with
Sprite
and his prize,' Drinkwater called down to the boat, ‘I'm going in pursuit.'

Ashby and Sundercombe had ably covered the convoy's
rear. Discovering the force against them, the remaining privateers had not pressed their attack. They were making off in the darkness to windward as fast as they could with
Icarus
in lagging pursuit and
Sprite
hard on their heels, white blurs in the gathering night. Drinkwater waved the boat off and rounded on Wyatt.

‘Set the stuns'ls, Mr Wyatt, and lay me a course to the eastward.'

‘The eastward, sir?' Wyatt stared at the dull gleam of
Icarus
's battle lantern to the southward.

‘Yes, damn you, the
eastward
. Mr Gordon, make to
Icarus
and
Sprite
: discontinue the chase. The night signal, if you please.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Quilhampton hauled himself wearily up the quarterdeck ladder. He was aware he had misjudged Drinkwater.

‘Well, James,' Drinkwater said briskly, ‘I'm setting the kites.'

‘You're going in pursuit, sir?' Quilhampton threw a bewildered look at the disparate heading of the schooners and
Patrician
. Wyatt gave a mighty shrug. Drinkwater laughed. His spirits were soaring. ‘I'm after bigger fish than those minnows, James . . .'

‘Tucker's frigate?'

‘Tucker's frigate.'

‘You're certain of her being there?'

‘As certain of anything in this perilous life, James.'

‘Sometime, sir, you might oblige me with an explanation.'

Drinkwater laughed again. ‘The moment I'm proved right.' Tiredness and then the exhilaration of the last hours had raised Drinkwater's morale to a pitch of almost unbearable anticipation. ‘Is Tucker being attended to?' he asked, in an attempt to recapture the dignity consonant with his rank.

‘He's under Pym's knife at the moment, sir.'

‘Pym's a good surgeon and Tucker looked to have the constitution of an ox.'

‘Very well.'

The formal, non-commital response might have described them all. They had done very well. He was
ridiculously pleased he had harangued his captains. It was perhaps fortunate that their gunnery had not been tested, that they had confronted nothing more than privateers, but they had manoeuvred like veterans and he must remember to say so in his report to their Lordships. The escaping schooners were unlikely to return to harry the convoy; they had been thoroughly frightened. Guile and skilful ship-handling had brought the British a local ascendancy. Now, Drinkwater mused, they must hold the advantage surprise had conferred.

‘Mr Wyatt!' Drinkwater beckoned to the master and he crossed the deck, expecting a rebuke. ‘You did very well, Mr Wyatt. The ship was handled with perfect precision.'

‘Thank you, sir,' Wyatt said smugly.

‘I may need your skill again before dawn, Mr Wyatt. I am in quest of a frigate . . .'

‘A frigate . . . ?' Wyatt's tone was incredulous in the dark.

‘Not an American frigate, you'll be pleased to hear,' Drinkwater said ironically, ‘at least, I hope not . . .' He was interrupted by a hail from the maintop:

‘Deck there! I can see fire, fire on the larboard bow!'

‘Ah,' sighed Drinkwater, ‘ease the helm a half-point, Mr Wyatt. James, pipe up spirits, and then send the men back to their stations.'

An hour later they were approaching the source of the fire with every man at his station, and under fighting sails.

‘Ease the helm another point, Mr Wyatt. Let us drop a little to loo'ard and cut off their retreat.' The dull glow of the fire opened on the starboard bow, allowing a better view from the quarterdeck. Their approach, concealed by darkness, was slow enough for Drinkwater, studying the dispositions of a number of vessels clustered about and illuminated by the burning Indiaman, to deduce the gist of what was happening.

‘They have very likely spent the day transhipping what they wanted out of the Indiaman they have fired,' he explained to Quilhampton, as both men stood side by side, their telescopes braced against the mizen rigging. ‘You can see the schooner which was mauled by
sparrow-hawk
 . . .'

‘She's lying alongside another East India Company ship,' observed Quilhampton.

‘It looks as though they used her mainyard as mast-sheers, they've got what looks like two handy spars back in that schooner already,' he said admiringly.

‘There's another ship, looks like an Indiaman, though she could be your frigate, just to the left; d'you see?'

Drinkwater shifted his glass. ‘Yes. They're waiting for the schooners to come back with another prize, I think. One of those two will be the
Kenilworth Castle
. She's carrying specie.'

‘Didn't that Company Johnnie indicate the
Lennox
was similarly loaded?' Quilhampton asked, catching something of his commander's excitement.

‘Indeed he did,' Drinkwater said with a sudden, tense deliberation which made Quilhampton lower his glass, look at Drinkwater and then smartly raise it again.

There was no mistaking the ship that now came into view. Hidden from them at first by the glow of the burning Indiaman, her lower hull was concealed, her tall masts indistinguishable behind the mass of the Indiaman's top-hamper up which the flames were now racing as the fire took a hold. The sudden flaring of the gigantic torch lit up all within its illuminating circle.

Quilhampton gave a low whistle. ‘There's your French frigate, sir.'

Patrician
was directly downwind of the group now, and a wave of warm air drifted towards them. A dull crackling roar could be heard, borne on the trade wind. The French frigate was hove to, like the Indiamen, under a backed main topsail, drifting slowly past the burning ship from which a cloud of sparks suddenly shot upwards. Concealed from the American and French allies busy at their mid-ocean rendezvous by the utter darkness beyond the range of their bonfire,
Patrician
slipped past unobserved, a mile to the north of them.

‘I'm going about in a moment or two, gentlemen,' Drinkwater announced to the officers assembled on the quarterdeck. ‘When I have done so we will engage the Frenchman from windward. Starboard battery to open fire. We shall have to watch that burning Indiaman, but
his windage is being fast consumed and the others are making greater leeway, increasing the distance between them. I will then attempt to rake . . .'

‘Sir!' Gordon was pointing; a moment later the concussion of cannon-fire rolled over the water.

‘They've seen us . . .' someone said.

‘No they haven't,' shouted Moncrieff, ‘they're firing away from us . . .'

‘What the devil . . . ?'

‘It isn't them firing, it's
Icarus
!'

‘Hands to tack ship!' Drinkwater roared, ‘By God we've got 'em! Take post, gentlemen, upon the instant if you please!'

There was a bustling aboard the
Patrician
, as the officers dispersed to their stations. The men, watching the conflagration in ordered silence, suddenly tensed. They were no longer observers, now they were to participate.

‘Mainsail haul!' Wyatt shouted, ‘Leggo and haul . . . haul aft the lee sheets, stretch those bowlines forrard now! Keep your eyes inboard and attend to your business!'

‘Icarus
must have mistaken your signal, sir.'

‘Aye, we never thought to look astern in our conceit, did we?'

‘I doubt we'd have seen her . . . there she is . . . she's got
Sprite
under her lee bow. Ashby must have assumed he was to follow us.'

‘Perhaps it was no bad assumption and, damn it, I bet it fooled the buggers – the two of 'em look like a Yankee clipper and a captured Indiaman!'

Icarus
could be seen clearly now looming on the edge of the firelit circle, hauling up her fore and mainsail, shortening down to fighting sail as she came up with less caution than Drinkwater's
Patrician
. A broadside rippled along her side, the brilliance of the gun's discharges bright points in the night, though they could see nothing of the fall of the shot.

‘Bring her round a little more to starboard, Mr Wyatt. Let us see if we can add to the confusion.'

Slowly
Patrician
swung and gathered way as she came off the wind. With the burning Indiaman, now almost reduced to a hulk, the other ships were drifting away fast.
At any moment
Patrician
herself would come between them and the blaze, revealing her presence.

Midshipman Porter bobbed close to Drinkwater, his red face ruddier in the glow. ‘Mr Gordon's compliments and the starboard chase guns will bear.'

‘Very well, Mr Porter, you may tell Mr Gordon to fire at will, but to have every gun-captain lay his piece carefully. I want no noisy, ineffectual broadsides.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

‘The frog's making sail, sir.' They were too late for complete surprise. Someone aboard the French frigate had seen
Patrician
and she was hauling her backed main yards and letting fall her lower canvas. Just then the first of Gordon's 24-pounders roared, followed by a second and a third. A cheer went up from the waist and Quilhampton bellowed for silence.

‘He's going to rake Ashby, by God!' Moncrieff called, but Drinkwater had already seen Ashby's dilemma and watched as he threw his helm over, attempting to swing round on to a parallel course to the Frenchman and trade broadside for broadside.

‘He's no fool,' Drinkwater muttered admiringly of the French commander. The broadside itself was hidden from them, but they saw the impact clearly on the
Icarus
, even in the dark, for she rolled in the swell as she turned and the pale rectangle of her fore topsail became first a triangle, then ceased to exist as her foremast crashed to the deck.

‘Firing high, by God, he's goin' to run!'

Bright pin-points, like two blinking cat's eyes, sparked from the Frenchman's stern. A column of water rose up close to
Patrician
's starboard bow and a crash from forward, followed by the murderous whirr of flying splinters, told where a shot had struck home.

‘He's firing his stern chasers, sir.'

‘I can see that, Mr Q. Mr Wyatt, lay me a course to pass close to
Icarus
, I wish to speak to Ashby and it will at least give us a chance to get a broadside in at that fellow.'