Since sailing from Spithead on a cruise against enemy privateers and commerce raiders, the mood in Cyclops's cockpit had changed. The affair of Morris and Drinkwater had been the ship's own cause celebre since many, particularly on the lower deck, knew the background to the quarrel. The immediate consequences for the protagonists had been a mastheading each after which Morris lost all credibility in the mess and, aware of the thinness of the ice upon which he now skated, assumed an attitude of almost total self-effacement. The change in his attitude was quite incredible and while he nursed a venomous hatred for Drinkwater he was himself now haunted by the noose.
Drinkwater, on the other hand, had become overnight a popular hero. His own stature increased with the hands and his self-confidence grew daily. Wheeler had made of him a sort of friend and had undertaken to school him in the smallsword. Drinkwater rapidly became adept at fencing and was once or twice invited to dine in the gunroom. Tregembo and Sharples attached themselves firmly to the midshipman and formed a sort of bodyguard.
After the scrap Blackmore had taken Drinkwater aside and quizzed him further about Morris. Drinkwater had not wanted to press charges and Blackmore saw to it that Morris knew this. The old man was confident that Morris would give no more trouble on the present cruise.
The sighting of the Yankee schooner was the first opportunity Cyclops had had of intercepting all but merchant ships and the crew were in high spirits as she bore down on her quarry.
The chase had seen Cyclops but failed to recognise the danger until too late. Approaching end-on the Americans had taken the frigate for a merchantman and a potential prize. The appearance of Cyclops's gun muzzles however, urged the rebels to flee. The schooner's helm was put up and she made off before the wind.
She was a small, low vessel, a fast soft-wood craft built in the shipyards of Rhode Island. But Cyclops, now carrying her studding sails in the freshening breeze, was tearing down on her. The American held his canvas but his smaller vessel laboured with its huge gaff sails threatening to bury her bow and broach her. The British frigate came on with a great white bone in her teeth. On her fo'c's'le Devaux waited for her bow to rise. The bow chaser barked.
'Short by God!' The gun's crew loaded again. Smoke belched a second time from the muzzle as the frigate ascended.
A dozen glasses were pointed at the schooner fine to larboard. The knot of officers on the quarterdeck muttered their opinions to each other. Drinkwater lingered, retained as messenger to the captain.
'We're closing all right.'
'He still hasn't hoisted colours.'
'There they are.' The American ensign rose to the peak and snapped out in the wind. The schooner was driving forward under too great a press of canvas. White water surged beneath her bow and along her side. A brief puff of smoke appeared, instantly dissipated by the wind. A hole opened in the frigate's forecourse.
'Good shooting by heaven!'
'Aye, and Hon Johnny will be bloody cross…'
Devaux's long nine-pounder barked again. A hole was visible in the schooner's mainsail.
'Quid pro quo,' said Keene.
'What'd you do now?' asked Wheeler of no one in particular.
'I'd stand to windward as fast as I could, once up wind of us he'll get away,' said Lieutenant Price. Everyone knew the schooner, with her fore and aft rig, could haul a bowline faster than a square-rigged frigate, but Price's opinion was contested by Drinkwater who could no longer hold himself silent.
'Beg pardon, Mr Price, but he's his booms to larboard with the wind aft. To stand to wind'ard he has to gybe on to the larboard tack. To do so on the starboard he must needs cross our bow…'
'He'll have to do something,' said Price irritably…
'Look!' said several voices at once.
The American commander knew his business. Aware that his desperate gamble of overcarrying canvas had failed, he decided to stand to windward on the larboard tack. But the risk of a gybe that would carry away gear was unacceptable if he was to escape, and he had to think of something to reduce this risk. Hope had been intently studying the Yankee, had reasoned along the lines that Drinkwater had followed and was anticipating some move by the rebel ship.
What the officers had seen was the scandalising of the two big gaff sails. The wooden gaffs began to hang down on their peak halyards, taking the power out of the canvas. But Hope had already noticed the topping lifts tighten to take the weight of the booms even before the peak halyards were started. He began roaring orders.
'Hands to braces! Move damn you!'
'Foretack! Maintack!'
The officers and men were galvanised to action. Hope looked again at the schooner, her speed had slackened. As Devaux's gun barked again the shot went over. The schooner began to turn. Now her stern was towards Cyclops. Through the glass Drinkwater read her name: Algonquin, Newport. He reported it to Hope. The schooner rolled to starboard as she came round, then her booms whipped over as she gybed. But the Americans were skilful. The main and foresheets were overhauled and the wind spilled from the scandalised sails.
'Down helm!'
'Lee braces!'
'Mainsail haul!'
'Let go an' haul!'
Even as Algonquin's gaffs rose again and her sails were hauled flat, Cyclops was turning. Hope's task was to traverse the base of a triangle the hypotenuse of which formed Algonquin's track. The schooner pointed to windward better than the frigate and if she reached the angle of the triangle before Cyclops, without damage, her escape was almost certain.
On the fo'c's'le Devaux was transferring his attention to the starboard bow chaser as Cyclops steadied on her new course, heeling over under her press of canvas.
A crack came from aloft. The main royal had dissolved into tattered strips.
'Aloft and secure that raffle!'
The Algonquin was pointing well up but still carrying too much canvas. Nevertheless she was head-reaching on the British frigate. For a few minutes the two ships raced on, the wind in the rigging and the hiss of water along their hulls the only significant sounds accompanying their grim contest. Then Devaux fired the starboard bow chaser. The shot passed through Algonquin's mainsail close to the first hole. A seam opened up and the sail flogged in two… three pieces.
Cyclops came up with her victim and hove-to just to windward. The Yankee ensign remained at the gaff.
Hope turned to Drinkwater. 'My compliments to Mr Devaux and he may fire the first division at that fellow.' Drinkwater hurried forward and delivered his message. The first lieutenant descended to the gun-deck and the six leading twelve-pounders in the starboard battery roared their command. The American struck.
'Mr Price, take a midshipman, two quartermasters, two bosun's mates and twenty men. Plymouth or Falmouth, Mr Price. Mr Wheeler, a file of your marines!'
'Aye, aye, sir!'
The long boat was swayed up from the waist and over the side, the yardarms blocks clicking with the efforts of the seamen. Once in the water men tumbled down into it. Drinkwater heard his own name called out by Price.
'Mr Drinkwater, see the Master for our position and a chart.'
'Aye, aye, sir!' The midshipman went in search of Blackmore. The old master was still grumbling about interruptions to his soundings on the Labadie Bank, but he wrote out the estimated latitude and longitude quickly enough. As Drinkwater turned away the old man grabbed his arm.
'Be careful, lad,' he said, full of concern, 'Yon's not like the Don.'