Richard Woodman - An Eye of the Fleet

'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 the 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.

The time passed for Drinkwater in a daze. Outwardly he carried out his duties with his customary efficiency. When the roll was called he answered for Sharples having been killed at the mill.

When Threddle's name was called his mouth clamped shut. His eyes swivelled to Morris. The enigmatic smile still played around the mouth of his adversary but Morris said nothing.

Strain and fatigue continued to play havoc with Drinkwater's nerves as the day wore on until, when the news of the arrival of La Creole on the bar spread rapidly through the ship, he seemed to emerge from a tunnel. He had found his second wind. Morris was just Morris, an evil to be endured, Achilles had been a brief and colourful intrusion into his life and was so no more; Cranston was dead, just that, dead; and Threddle… Threddle was discharged dead too, killed in action at the mill… or so the ship's books said…

It was only when he received the summons to attend the Captain, however, that his mind received the final jerk that returned him to sanity. As he entered the cabin in company with all the other officers he found himself standing next to Morris. It came to him then, the awful truth, the fact that his numbed mind had automatically excluded in its pain…

Sharples had not died in action. Sharples had been shot down in cold blood under the cover of action. And the man next to him had done it…

'Well, gentlemen…' Hope looked round the ring of tired yet expectant faces. They were all here. The welcome features of Devaux and Wheeler, the careworn, lined face of old Blackmore, the younger Keene and youthful Skelton. Behind the commissioned officers the mature warrant officers; the gunner, the bosun and the carpenter, and the eager yet apprehensive faces of his midshipmen and master's mates.

'Well gentlemen, it seems our friend has returned, I suspect with reinforcements. I imagine he will attempt a cutting out so I am not intending to warp the ship round. If we see La Creole approaching then we shall have to do so and for that eventuality the spring is already rigged, but I do not foresee this. The wind during the night will be offshore and therefore favour an attack by boats. I have a mind to bait a trap and for that purpose have summoned you all here… Moonset is about two o'clock. We may, therefore, expect his boats soon after in order that, having taken us,' here Hope looked round and swept what he believed to be a sardonically inspiring grin around the company, '…he may carry the terral to sea…'