Richard Woodman - An Eye of the Fleet

Grimmer remains of what had once been men lay in unseemly attitudes and splashes of vivid colour. Dried blood was dark beside the ochreous pools of vomit, the stark white of exposed bone, the blue of bled flesh and the greens and browns of intestines. It was a vile sight and the hollow eyes of the surviving members of the crew regarded the British captain with a dull hatred as the author of their fate. But Hope, with the simple faith of the dedicated warrior, returned their gaze with scorn. For these men were nothing but legalised pirates, plundering for profit, destroying merchant ships for gain, and visiting upon innocent seamen a callous indifference to their fates.

The captain ordered out of her such stores as might serve the frigate and had combustibles prepared to fire her. Lieutenant Keene boarded La Creole at sunset to ignite her. As the offshore terral began to blow seawards Cyclops weighed her anchor. La Creole burned furiously, a black pall rolling seawards away from the coast of that benighted land.

Cyclops was standing well off shore when La Creole 's magazine exploded. An hour later she altered course for Cape Hatteras and New York.

The weather was once more against them. Off the dreaded Cape they met a gale of unbelievable ferocity which tried the gear severely. The main topgallant mast went by the board and took with it the fore and mizen topgallants. During this blow the wounded were, of course, confined below. The cockpit was a scene of utter degradation. The filth in the bilge was augmented by the water made by the straining frigate as she laboured in the seaway and the whole slopped about the bottom of the ship, driving the rodent population higher. The rats ran almost unchecked over the bodies of the dying who retched and urinated without relief. For die they did. Scarce a man who received anything more trivial than a scratch escaped gangrene or blood poisoning of one kind or another.

Drinkwater was one of the fortunate few. His cut, a superficial one, was disfiguring rather than dangerous. Appleby sutured it for him, an Appleby who had lost much rotundity and whose pitifully few medicines were exhausted as he fought disease and sepsis with his own diminishing energies. At last, utterly worn with fatigue and exasperation he wept angry and frustrated tears in the darkness of his hellish kingdom.

Hope buried the bundles in their hammocks. Six one day, nine another as the wind howled, the frigate bucked and the spray drove inboard in hissing sheets. The burial service became curtailed into the briefest formality.

Although the weather was poor it allowed Cyclops to limp north undetected. For she was in no condition to fight. In addition to the heavy losses incurred at the Galuda River the ship's company now had to subsist on rotten stores. Opening the last casks of salt provisions Copping, the purser, had discovered the usually tainted pork was uneatably putrid and the misery of Cyclops 's company immeasurably increased.

At last she made her number to the guardship at Sandy Hook and, in company with the members of the North American Squadron, let go her anchor in the Hudson River.

For the last months of effective British rule in any part of her thirteen colonies, His Britannic Majesty's frigate Cyclops lay passive. Arriving at New York on the last day of April 1781 she lay in the mouth of the Hudson without positive orders beyond the general directive to effect repairs to her fabric.

Admiral Arbuthnot did not appear to take a great interest in her arrival as she was not on the establishment of the North American Station. Indeed he seemed rather offended that she should make her appearance anywhere in his command without his receiving prior notice, and visited his displeasure on Captain Hope whom he greeted with icy politeness.

Secretly angry that he had ended up between two stools, Hope claimed his mission had been confidential but, when challenged as to its success, was compelled to report failure. His explanation was received with disbelief, the Admiral firmly maintaining the Carolinas were in British hands. Hope also wished to rid himself of the Continental currency but this was too much for Admiral Arbuthnot who studied the captain through rheumy eyes.

'You arrive on my station, sir, occupy a British post without authority, fail in a mission you claim is secret yet was given you by the captain of a frigate and now you wish me to rid you of an embarrassing sum of rebel currency.' The admiral rose. 'You may retain the stuff until you report to y'r own flag officer, Admiral… Admiral…'

'Kempenfelt, sir.'

'Exactly.' Arbuthnot appeared to consider the matter closed.

'But sir, I have to refit my to'gallants…'

'Your topgallants, sir, are your topgallants and not mine… I suggest you contact Admiral Kempenfelt on the matter. Good day, sir.'

Hope left.

Eventually Arbuthnot's secretary received instructions from London to render such assistance as might be necessary to the frigate Galatea . A note was appended to the effect that due to political circumstances of the greatest importance, Galatea had been retained in home waters and her mission undertaken by Cyclops , Captain Henry Hope, R.N.

The secretary therefore prepared an order for her to come in and draw such stores as she required and refit her gear. Arbuthnot signed the order without comment since he was at that time prone to sign almost anything, being nearly blind. On receipt of these orders Cyclops moved to a berth at the Manhattan Dockyard to commence her repairs. On that evening Hope and Devaux dined together. Over their port, several cases of which had been removed from La Creole , Hope drew Devaux's attention to a decision that the weather and the frigate's cranky tophamper had deferred.

'Assuming that we eventually receive definite orders, Devaux, we have to consider the matter of a replacement for Skelton. Cranston was a loss to us and the Service as a whole…'

'Yes,' agreed Devaux nodding. His mind slid back to the dense forest and the sight of Cranston's mutilated body… He tore his mind away from the grisly memory.

'D'ye have any opinions?' asked the Captain.

The first lieutenant recollected himself. 'Well sir, the next senior is Morris. His journals are poorly kept, though he's served the six years… I consider him quite unsuitable and I would appreciate his removal from the ship… indeed I threatened him with it I seem to remember… I am of the opinion that young Drinkwater is a likely candidate for an acting lieutenancy.' He paused. 'But surely, sir, there's a junior in the fleet hereabouts…' Devaux indicated the riding lights of several warships visible through the stern windows.

'An Admiral's favourite d'ye mean, Mr Devaux?' asked Hope archly.

'Just so, sir.'

'But Admiral Arbuthnot informed me that the ship is under Kempenfelt's flag. Who am I to question his decision?' he enquired with mock humility, and then in a harder tone, 'besides I am not disposed to question him on the matter of my midshipmen.' He sipped his port. 'Furthermore I submitted a list of casualties that clearly indicated the state of our complement of officers. If he does not see fit to appoint someone he can go to the devil.' He paused. 'Besides I rather suspect Kempenfelt would approve our choice…' Hope smiled benignly and tossed off the glass.

Devaux raised an eyebrow. 'Old Blackmore will be pleased, he's had Drinkwater under his wing since we left Sheerness.' The two officers refilled their glasses.

'Which,' said Devaux choosing his moment, 'brings me to the matter of Morris sir. I'd be obliged if a transfer could be arranged…'