Drinkwater was standing right aft. As the big mainsail was lowered he hove in the slack of the sheet and coiled it down.
There was a sudden scream from forward.
The marine sentry, bending down to open the companionway for the prisoners' cook had had the boiling contents of the pot dashed into his face.
In a trice the American had picked up the marine's musket and threatened the four seamen lowering the foresail. For a split-second every man on Algonquin's deck was motionless then, with a whoop, the Americans were pouring aft. They hurled themselves at the unarmed seamen as the latter let go the halyards, they pulled belaying pins from the rail and rolled aft, a screaming human tide. The foresail came down in a rush, adding to the confusion.
The seamen forward were quickly overpowered but further aft Hagan had got several marines to present. The muskets cracked and three Americans went down. Lieutenant Price lugged out his hanger and leapt for the lanyard of the starboard quarter gun. He tugged it. A flash and roar emanated through the fog as the grape cut a swathe through friend and foe. Momentarily the human tide was stemmed. Then it rolled aft again.
Drinkwater remained rooted to the spot. This was all a dream. In a moment the fog would clear and Algonquin become her ordered self again. A pistol ball smacked into the rail beside him. He saw Price, mouth drawn back into a snarl, whirling the slender hanger. One, two rebels received its needle point in their bodies then, with a sickening thud, a handspike whirled by a giant half-caste Indian split the lieutenant's skull.
Drinkwater suddenly felt inexplicably angry. Nothing could withstand the furious onslaught of the Americans. He was dimly aware of struggling British seamen and marines being held by three or four of the privateersmen. He knew he was about to die and felt furious at the knowledge. He choked on his rage, tears leaping into his eyes. Suddenly his dirk was in his hand and he was lunging forward. The big half-caste saw him coming too late. The man had picked up Price's hanger out of curiosity. Suddenly aware of the midshipman rushing towards him he bent and held it outwards like a hunting knife.
Drinkwater remembered his fencing. As the Indian jabbed the sword upwards Drinkwater's dirk took the hanger's foible in a semi-circular parry. Taking the blade he exerted a prise-de-fer, raised his point and his own momentum forced his toy weapon into the stomach of the Indian.
The man howled with pain and surprise as they collided. Then he collapsed on top of him. For a moment Drinkwater's anger evaporated into sudden, chilling fear, a fear mingled with an overwhelming sense of relief. Then he received a blow on the head and was plunged into a whirlpool of oblivion.
When Drinkwater recovered consciousness it was several minutes before he realised what had happened. He was confused by total darkness and a regular creaking sound that terminated in a number of almost simultaneous dull knocks before starting again.
'Wh… where the hell am I?' he asked out loud.
A groan came from alongside him. Then a hand grasped his knee.
'Mister Drinkwater?' A strained voice enquired, pain and anxiety in the tone of it.
'Yes.'
'Grattan, sir, marine.'
'Eh… Oh, yes.'
'We're in the fo'c's'le… just the wounded, sir…'
'Wounded?'
'Aye, sir, you were unconscious. My arm's broken…'
'Oh, I'm sorry…'
'Thank you, sir.' Drinkwater's brain was beginning to grasp the situation and an enormous and painful bump on the crown of his head testified to the accuracy of the marine's report. Recollection came back to him. He sat up and took stock.
'What's that noise then?'
'Sweepin', sir… that's what the others are doin'.'
Before he could ask more the hatch flew open. A few cold drops of moisture dripped into Drinkwater's upturned face, then the shape of a man lowering himself down blotted out the foggy daylight.
The man bent over each of the prisoners in turn. When he got to Drinkwater he grunted: 'You're fit. Get on deck!' He grabbed Drinkwater's arm and dragged him to his feet.
A few moments later Drinkwater stood unsteadily on the deck of Algonquin and looked aft. The source of the strange noise revealed itself. Still shrouded in fog, Algonquin was making slow but steady headway over the calm, grey sea. Between the gunports oak thole pins had been driven into the caprail. At each set of pins a long oar, or sweep, was shipped. Two men were stationed at each sweep, heaving it back and forth so that the schooner made way to the southward. The men at the sweeps were nearly all British. One of the American mates walked up and down the deck with a rope's end. Every now and again he brought it down on the bare back of a seaman or the sweat-darkened red coat of a marine.
Drinkwater was pushed along the deck, given a pannikin of green water from the scuttle butt and shoved alongside a marine pulling the aftermost larboard sweep. The man was Hagan. He was running with sweat as the rigging dripped with foggy dew.
Hagan grunted a welcome and Drinkwater grasped the loom of the sweep. It was slippery with the blood and plasma of the man he had relieved. Within a quarter of an hour Drinkwater knew why the privateer was under sweeps. The progress through the fog was an advantage to the American commander but it was also the most efficient way of exhausting the British. An exhausted prize crew would not attempt further resistance.
After an hour Drinkwater had reached a state of physical numbness that utterly overpowered him. He had ceased to feel the mate's starter. His head throbbed but his brain had ceased to function. It was Hagan who roused him from his torpor. The marine sergeant hissed between clenched teeth, 'Breeze comin'.'
Drinkwater raised his head and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.
A catspaw rippled the greasy surface of the sea. The sun was brighter now, warmer. He had no idea of the time nor of how long he had been semi-conscious. The fog began to disperse. Imperceptibly at first, wind and sunshine broke through the murk.
An hour later there was a breeze. Light and fitful, it steadied to become a north westerly air. From a zephyr it graduated to a breeze and the American commander ordered the sweeps inboard and the sails hoisted. Before they were herded below into the fo'c's'le Drinkwater was aware that Algonquin was headed south-east for he had heard the helm order. As the hatch closed over the British the schooner heeled and the water of the Channel hissed past her washboards with increasing speed.
Chapter Nine
A Turning of Tables
The British prize crew aboard the Algonquin were in a pathetic state. It had been evening when the Americans had retaken their ship. All that night the British had swept the craft south, away from the Cornish coast. It was the following dawn when the midshipman, recovering consciousness, had been forced on deck. By the time the breeze sprang up the day was far advanced.
In the stinking fo'c's'le the British sprawled in all attitudes of exhausted abandon. After a while the eyes adjusted to the darkness and Drinkwater could see the men asleep. He looked for Grattan. The man tossed restlessly, his eyes staring. He was the only other man awake. Another, whose name Drinkwater did not know, was dead. His head had been injured and dried blood blackened his face. He lay stiff, his mouth open, emitting a silent cry that would echo forever. Drinkwater shivered.
Grattan was muttering incoherently for the pain of his arm had brought on a fever.