'Perhaps, gentlemen, you would be kind enough after dinner to give me room to thrash Mr Morris at single stick. Now, steward, my dinner if you please…'
He sat down grateful that his own mug remained full. The meal was completed in total silence. The two master's mates disappeared.
It was afterwards agreed that Drinkwater had been extremely sporting in allowing notice of the forthcoming match to be circulated. It was quite a crowd that eagerly cleared a space for the protagonists while Drinkwater removed his coat and stock. Both combatants were in their shirt-sleeves and Drinkwater took up his stick and tested it for balance. He had chosen the weapon for its familiarity. In Barnet it had been a favourite with the lads, imitating the gentleman's short sword, it combined the finesse of that weapon with some of the blunt brutality of the quarterstaff. The carpenter's mate had done well.
Drinkwater watched Beale push the last sea-chest back against the ship's side.
'Mr Beale, will 'ee stand second to me?'
'With pleasure, Mr Drinkwater,' said the other youngster shooting a sidelong glance at Morris.
The latter looked desperately around him. At last one of the master's mates stood second to Morris rather than spoil the match.
As duelling was illegal on board ship Drinkwater's choice of weapons was fortuitously apt. Although he had been guided by his own proficiency with the weapon and chose the single stick in ignorance, any action by the lieutenants could be circumvented by an explanation that it was a sporting occasion. To this end the seconds conferred and decided to send the messman in search of Wheeler who, despite his commissioned status, could be relied upon for his vanity in presiding over such a match.
It was a tiny space in which they had to fight, about five feet four inches high and some fifteen feet by ten in area. The spectators backed up against the ship's side further restricted it. Someone offered odds and the babble of excited voices attracted more attention. Into this babel, calling for order strode the resplendent figure of Lieutenant Wheeler. His arrival was accompanied by a rending of canvas as the forward screen was demolished, thus augmenting the spectators by some two score. Wheeler looked about him.
'Damn my eyes, what an evil coven have we here. For the love of God bring more lanterns, a fencing master has to see, d'ye hear…'
The protagonists faced each other and Wheeler issued his instructions.
'Now gentlemen, the rules of foil, hits with the point, on the trunk only. You are unmasked, which I do not like, but as this is only a sporting match,' this with a heavy emphasis, 'I should not have to caution you.' He paused.
'En garde!'
'Êtes vous prêts?'
'Aye,' 'Aye,' Wheeler grimaced at the common response.
'Allez.'
Drinkwater's legs were bent ready for the lunge and his left hand was on his hip as there was no room for it in equipoise. Morris had adopted a similar position. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
Drinkwater beat Morris's stick; it gave. He beat again and lunged. The point hit Morris on the breastbone but he side swiped and would have hit Drinkwater's head but the latter parried on the lunge and recovered.
'Halte!' yelled Wheeler, then, 'En garde.'
This time Drinkwater extended, drew Morris's stick and disengaged, pressing the lunge. His point, blunt though it was, scraped and bruised Morris's upper arm, ripping his shirt away.
'Halte!' cried Wheeler but as Drinkwater returned to guard Morris, with a yell of rage, cut at his opponent's flank. The blow stung Drinkwater's sword arm and bruised his ribs so that tears started in his eyes and his arm dropped. But it was only for a second. He lost his temper and jabbed forward. Wheeler was yelling for them to stop but Drinkwater's stick drove savagely into Morris's stomach muscles. Morris stumbled and bent forward. Drinkwater recovered and raised his smarting arm. He beat the length of his stick down upon Morris's back.
'Halte! Halte!' screamed Wheeler jumping up and down with the excitement.
'Leave 'em! Leave 'em!' yelled the cheering onlookers.
Drinkwater hit Morris again as he went down. His arm was filled now with the pent-up venom in his soul. He struck Morris for himself, for Sharples and for Kate Sharples until someone pinioned him from behind. Morris lay prone. Someone passed a bucket along. A woman shouted it was full of lady's pee' and the crowd roared its approval as it was emptied over Morris's back.
Lieutenant Devaux, disturbed from the quiet consumption of a third bottle of looted Madeira by the yelling and stamping, elbowed his way through the crowd. He was blear-eyed and dishevelled. He regarded the scene with a jaundiced eye.
'Our bloody little fire eater, eh?'
Silence fell. Punters melted away into the darkness. 'Send this rabble forward. Wheeler! What in God's name are you doing here? Who's in charge? Wheeler, what's the meaning of all this tomfoolery?'
But as Wheeler began to explain an astonished Lieutenant Price came in. Looking at the tableau in ill-disguised regret that he had missed the rout, he addressed the first lieutenant.
'Captain's compliments, Mr Devaux, and will you attend him in the cabin immediately'
For answer Devaux swore horribly and left the company. A few moments later, hair clubbed, hatted and coated he made his way aft.
'Orders to sail, I believe,' Price said quietly to Wheeler by way of explanation.
Drinkwater overheard. He drew a deep, deep breath and turned his back on the shakily standing Morris. They could sail to hell and back now, thought Nathaniel, for he no longer felt oppressed by his boyhood.
Chapter Eight
The Capture of the Algonquin
Cyclops was under easy canvas standing southward. At noon the ship was hove to and soundings tried for the Labadie Bank. As the yards swung round there was a sudden cry from the masthead: 'Sail Ho!'
Devaux ordered Drinkwater up with a glass. When he returned Hope was on deck.
'Schooner, sir,' the midshipman reported.
'Raked masts?'
'Aye, sir.'
'Yankee,' snapped Hope. 'Belay that nonsense, Mr Blackmore. Mr Devaux all sail, steer south.'
Blackmore looked crestfallen, holding the lead and examining the arming, but around him the ship burst into activity. The topgallant sails were cast loose in their slack buntlines and the yards hoisted. Within minutes, braced round to catch the wind, the canvas tautened. Cyclops drove forward.
'Royals, sir?' queried Devaux as he and Hope gauged the wind strength.
'Royals, sir,' assented the captain. 'Royal halliards… hoist away!'
The light yards were set flying, sent aloft at the run to the bare poles above the straining topgallants. As the frigate spread her kites Hope walked forward and carefully ascended the foremast. Behind him Devaux, already querying the wisdom of setting royals in the prevailing breeze, expressed his opinion of captains who could not trust their officers to make reports. Ten minutes later the captain descended. Approaching the knot of officers on the quarterdeck he said, 'She's Yankee all right. Small, light and stuffed full of men. Luckily for us she's to loo'ard and the wind's inclined to freshen.'
'Should catch him then,' said Devaux, looking pointedly aloft.
'Aye,' ruminated Blackmore, still peeved at the captain's disregard for his navigational technicalities, 'but if he once gets to windward he'll stand closer than us…'
'Quite!' snapped Hope, 'and now Mr Devaux we will clear for action.'