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'She's off lads, we've got 'em!' One head turned, then another, then all at once the British rallied, seeing over their heads the movement in the enemy's ship.

They took up the cry and with renewed vigour carried on the work of stabbing and cutting their adversaries. Looking over their shoulders the Franco-Americans began to realise what was going on. The militia were the first to break, running and scrambling over friend and foe alike.

La Creole scraped slowly aft, catching frequently and only tearing herself finally clear of Cyclops after a minute or two. Sufficient time elapsed for most of her men to return to her, for the exhausted British let them go. The final scenes of the action would have been comic if they had not occurred in such grim circumstances with the dead and dying of three nations scattered about the bloody deck.

Several men leapt overboard and swam to where their comrades were lowering ropes over the side. One of these was the French commander who gesticulated fiercely from the dramatic eminence of the frigate's rail before plunging overboard and swimming strongly for his own ship.

On Cyclops's gangway a negro was on his knees, rolling his eyes, his hands clasped in an unmistakable gesture of submission. Seeing Drinkwater almost alone in the forepart of the ship the negro flung himself down at his feet. Behind him Devaux seemed bent on running him through, a Devaux with blood lust in his eyes…

'No, no massa, Ah do surrenda sah! Jus' like that Gen'ral Burgoyne, sah, Ah do surrenda!' It was Wheeler who eventually overcame the first lieutenant and brought him to his senses by telling him the captain wanted him aft. The negro, thankfully ignored, attached himself to Drinkwater.

The two ships were now two cables apart. Neither of them was in a fit condition to re-engage immediately.

'That,' said Captain Hope to Mr Blackmore as they emerged from the defensive hedge made for them by Wheeler and his marines, 'That was a damned close thing!'

The sailing master nodded with unspoken relief. Hope barked a short, nervous laugh.

'The devil'll have to wait a little longer for us, eh Blackmore?'

La Creole drifted astern.

'Cut that cable, mister,' ordered Hope when Devaux eventually reached him, 'and find out who let the anchor go.'

'Might I suggest we weigh it, sir…'

'Cut it, dammit, I want to re-engage before he spreads the news of our arrival on the coast.'

Devaux shrugged and turned forward.

Hope turned to the sailing master. 'We're in soundings then.'

'Aye, sir,' said the old man recollecting himself.

'Make sail, we'll finish that rebel first.'

But La Creole was already shaking out her canvas. She was to leeward and soon under way. Fifteen minutes later Cyclops was before the wind, two and three-quarter miles astern of the privateer.

That was still the position when darkness set in.

Below, in the cockpit Drinkwater sat having his shoes polished by the negro. He was unable to rid himself of the encumbrance and in the aftermath of action no one seemed to bother about the addition to Cyclops's complement.

'What's your name?' he asked fascinated by the ebony features of the man.

'Mah name, sah, is Ach'lles and Ah am your serbant…'

'My servant?' said Drinkwater astonished.

'Yes sah! You sabe ma life. Ach'lles your best fre'nd.'

Chapter Fourteen

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men…

March 1781

Daylight revealed Cyclops alone within the circle of her visible horizon. La Creole had given her the slip and Captain Hope was furious that her arrival on the coast would now be broadcast. He now had no alternative but to execute his orders as speedily as possible.

He waited impatiently for noon and Blackmore's meridian altitude. When the master had made his calculations he brought the answer to Hope. 'Our latitude is thirty-four degrees twelve minutes north, sir. That is,' he glanced at his slate, That is forty-three miles to the north of our landfall although we shall have to weather Frying Pan shoals.'

Hope nodded. 'Very well, make the necessary arrangements and be kind enough to attend me with the first lieutenant… and, er, Mr Blackmore, have young Drinkwater bring your charts down here.'

When the master reappeared with Devaux, Hope cordially invited them to sit. Drinkwater spread the charts out on the table between them.

'Ah hhmmm, Mr Drinkwater,' began Hope. 'The first lieutenant has informed me that it was you that let go the sheet anchor during the late action with La Creole?'

'Er, yes, sir. I was assisted by Tregembo, fore-topman, but I take full responsibility for the loss of the anchor…'

'Quite so, quite so…'

'If you'll permit me to observe, sir,' broke in Devaux, 'it may well have saved the ship.'

Hope looked up sharply. There was the smallest hint of reproach in Devaux's voice. But Hope had not the energy for anger, his glance caught Blackmore's. Barely perceptibly the old master shrugged his shoulders. Hope smiled to himself. Old men saw things differently…

'Quite so, Mr Devaux. Mr Drinkwater I wish to congratulate you on your initiative. It is a quality which you appear to possess in abundance. I shall do what I can for you and if I fail I am sure Mr Devaux will prompt me… in the meantime I would be delighted if you and Mr Cranston together with Lieutenant Wheeler, Mr Devaux and yourself, Master, would join me at dinner. Who will have the watch, Mr Devaux?'

'Lieutenant Skelton, sir.'

'Very well, we had better have Keene and of course no dinner aboard Cyclops would be complete without an after-dinner speaker in the shape of the surgeon. Please see to it… Now Mr Drinkwater, the charts…'

The men bent over the table, their bodies moving automatically to the motion of the frigate.

'Our destination,' began the captain, 'is the mouth of the Galuda River here, in Long Bay. As you observe there is a bar but within the river mouth there is a small fort: Fort Frederic. Our task is to enter the river, pass to the garrison such stores and munitions as they require and to hand a certain package to some sort of agent. The details of this are known to Mr Devaux and need not concern us here…' Hope paused and wiped his forehead. He resumed. 'When we close the coast we will send boats in ahead to sound the channel into the anchorage.'

Devaux and Blackmore nodded.

'To be on the safe side we will clear for action as we enter the river and put a spring on the cable when we anchor. I do not intend being here a moment longer than is absolutely necessary for I fear our late adversary will come looking for us with reinforcements.' Hope tapped the chart with the dividers.

'Any questions, gentlemen?'

Devaux cleared his throat. 'If I am not mistaken, sir, you are as apprehensive of this operation as I am…?' Hope said nothing, merely stared at the lieutenant.

'I mislike the whole thing, sir. It has a smell about it, I…'

'Mr Devaux,' bristled Hope, 'it is not part of your duties to question orders, I imagine their Lordships know their business.' Hope spoke with a conviction he was far from feeling, his own misgivings lending his voice an asperity that was over-severe.

But Devaux knew nothing of the circumstances of Hope's reception of his orders. To him Hope was no longer the man who had towed the Santa Teresa off the San Lucar shoal. The tedious weeks of patrol had wearied him, the worry over prize-money had worn him and he had learned from Wheeler how Hope and Blackmore had taken an abject refuge behind a steel hedge of bayonets in the recent fight. Devaux's reaction was jaundiced for he, too, had been subject to the same strains for similar reasons. But he saw Hope now as a timid old man, blindly obeying the orders dished up by a hated Tory cabal… he mastered his impatience with difficulty; events had conspired against him…