Thus did Cyclops pass two nights waiting for some news of British or Loyalist forces.
The following morning Wheeler was relieved of his command to take over the entire marine detachment in support of Lieutenant Devaux and a party of seamen who were to undertake a probe inland. It was a desperate attempt by Hope to fulfil his orders; if the prophet would not go to the mountain then some attempt must be made to bring the mountain to Mahomet…
Thus reasoned the captain as he wiped his perspiring forehead. He poured himself a glass of rum grog and walked aft. The slick waters of the Galuda bubbled under Cyclops's stern, chuckling round the rudder which moved slightly with a faint creak and soft grind of tiller chains.
In the corner of his vision he could just see the landing party forming up after disembarking. He saw Wheeler throw out an advanced picket under Hagan and lead off with the rest of the marines. In a less precise column he saw Midshipman Morris follow with a squad of seamen. Midshipman Drinkwater brought up the rear followed by a file of marines under their corporal. The head of the column had already disappeared in the trees when he saw Devaux, after addressing a few final words to Keene left as fort-commander, look back at the ship then take to his heels in chase of his independent command…
Hope tossed off the rum and looked seawards. The longboat was down there under Cranston. Skelton was the only other commissioned officer left on board. With a surprising pang of affection he thought anxiously of Devaux and the gaudy but competent Wheeler… he thought idly of young Drinkwater… so very like himself all those years ago… he sighed again and watched the Galuda run seawards… out to the open sea… 'From whence cometh our help' he muttered in silent cynicism to himself…
Drinkwater had little taste for the inland expedition. Once they had lost sight of the frigate it seemed to him that the whole party was instantly endangered. The sea was their element and as if to confirm his worries seamen ahead of him, men as nimble as monkeys in the rigging, were tripping and stumbling over tree roots and cursing at the squelching morasses that they began immediately to encounter. He was also over-shadowed by the earnest entreaties of Achilles who had refused to come with Drinkwater but who impressed upon the midshipman the folly of going inland. Drinkwater therefore plunged into the forest with his nerves already highly strung, with every fibre of his being suspicious of the least faltering of the head of the column, of the least exclamation no matter how innocent the cause…
Despite the nature of the terrain the landing party made good progress along the track that led inland from Fort Frederic. About five miles from the fort they came across a cleared area with a saw pit and indications of some sort of logging post. There was also evidence that its occupants had made a hurried departure. A few miles further on they came across a small plantation with a clapboard house and outbuildings. The house had been partially burned and the outbuildings were a mass of flies. Carrion eaters were feeding on the decomposing corpses of cattle.
The stink of that burnt out farm seemed to linger with the little column as it made its way through the oppressively empty pine barrens. They crossed a creek that drained north into the Galuda and set up a bivouac for the night. The men were now grumbling in a murmur that soon became an uproar as the mosquitoes began biting. Devaux had no zeal for this kind of service but Wheeler, able to assume the unofficial leadership through his military training, was revelling in his own element. Watches were posted and the party settled down to eat what they had brought with them.
About sunset, having ascertained his watch duties for the night, Drinkwater went off into the surrounding forest to answer a call of nature. After the sweaty progress of the day, the incessant grumbling of the men and the struggle to keep them going towards the end, he was feeling very tired. Squatting over a tree root he became light-headed, convinced that this was not really him, Nathaniel Drinkwater, who squatted thus, emptying his bowels God knows how many thousand miles from home. He looked down. Was this soggy, mossy undergrowth really the fabulous Americas? It seemed so illogical as to be impossible. As so often happened at such private moments he found his thoughts drifting to Elizabeth. Somehow the image of her was more real than this ludicrous actuality…
So strongly was he able to fantasise that he seemed to see himself telling Elizabeth of how, once, many years ago, he had sat across the roots of a pine tree in somewhat indelicate circumstances in far away Carolina thinking of her. So disembodied were his instincts that he failed to hear the crack of a dead branch behind him.
Even when Morris pitched him forward on his face he did not react immediately. Only when it dawned on him that he had his face pressed in a mossy hummock and his naked backside revealed to the world did he come to.
'Well, well, what a pretty sight… and how very appropriate, eh, Threddle?'
At the sound of that voice and the mention of the name he tried to turn, putting an arm out to push himself up. But he was too late. Even as he took his weight a foot came down on his elbow and his arm collapsed. Almost instinctively he drew his knees up, twisting his head round.
Threddle stood on his arm, a cutlass in his hand. There was a cruel glitter in his eyes and the corners of his mouth smirked.
'What shall we do with him, eh, Threddle?' Morris remained behind him, out of sight but Drinkwater felt horribly exposed, like a mare being steadied for the stallion. As if reading his own fear Morris kicked him. The wave of nausea that spread upwards from his genitals was overwhelming, he fought for breath as the vomit emptied from him. Suddenly he felt Threddle's hand in his hair, twisting his face round so that he faced his own excrement…
'What a very good idea, Threddle… and then we will bugger him, eh? That'll cut him down to his proper size…' Drinkwater had no power to resist, all he could do was clamp his mouth and eyes shut. But even as the smell of his own ordure grew stronger in his nostrils the pressure of Threddle's hand ceased and pulled sideways. The big man fell with a squelchy thud.
'What the…?' Morris half turned to see in the gathering twilight the figure of a man holding a boarding pike. Its end gleamed wetly as it was pointed at Morris.
'Sharples!'
Sharples said nothing to Morris. 'Are you all right Mr Drinkwater?' The midshipman rose unsteadily to his feet. He leaned against the tree and, with trembling fingers, buttoned his ducks. Still not trusting his voice he nodded dumbly.
Morris made a move but ceased as Sharples jabbed the point at his chest.
'Now Mister Morris take the pistol out of your belt and no tricks…' Drinkwater lifted his head to watch. It was getting quite dark but there was still light enough to see the furious gleam in Sharples's eyes.
'No tricks now, Mister Morris I want you to place that pistol at Threddle's head and blow his brains out…' the voice was vehemently insistent. Drinkwater looked down at Threddle. The pike had pierced his abdomen, entering below the rib cage and ripping through the digestive organs. He was not dead but lay with blood flowing across his belly and gobbets of gore trickling from his mouth. Occasionally his legs twitched weakly and the only thing about him that seemed not to be already half dead were the eyes that screamed a silent protest and cry for mercy…