Hope buried the bundles in their hammocks. Six one day, nine another as the wind howled, the frigate bucked and the spray drove inboard in hissing sheets. The burial service became curtailed into the briefest formality.
Although the weather was poor it allowed Cyclops to limp north undetected. For she was in no condition to fight. In addition to the heavy losses incurred at the Galuda River the ship's company now had to subsist on rotten stores. Opening the last casks of salt provisions Copping, the purser, had discovered the usually tainted pork was uneatably putrid and the misery of Cyclops's company immeasurably increased.
At last she made her number to the guardship at Sandy Hook and, in company with the members of the North American Squadron, let go her anchor in the Hudson River.
For the last months of effective British rule in any part of her thirteen colonies, His Britannic Majesty's frigate Cyclops lay passive. Arriving at New York on the last day of April 1781 she lay in the mouth of the Hudson without positive orders beyond the general directive to effect repairs to her fabric.
Admiral Arbuthnot did not appear to take a great interest in her arrival as she was not on the establishment of the North American Station. Indeed he seemed rather offended that she should make her appearance anywhere in his command without his receiving prior notice, and visited his displeasure on Captain Hope whom he greeted with icy politeness.
Secretly angry that he had ended up between two stools, Hope claimed his mission had been confidential but, when challenged as to its success, was compelled to report failure. His explanation was received with disbelief, the Admiral firmly maintaining the Carolinas were in British hands. Hope also wished to rid himself of the Continental currency but this was too much for Admiral Arbuthnot who studied the captain through rheumy eyes.
'You arrive on my station, sir, occupy a British post without authority, fail in a mission you claim is secret yet was given you by the captain of a frigate and now you wish me to rid you of an embarrassing sum of rebel currency.' The admiral rose. 'You may retain the stuff until you report to y'r own flag officer, Admiral… Admiral…'
'Kempenfelt, sir.'
'Exactly.' Arbuthnot appeared to consider the matter closed.
'But sir, I have to refit my to'gallants…'
'Your topgallants, sir, are your topgallants and not mine… I suggest you contact Admiral Kempenfelt on the matter. Good day, sir.'
Hope left.
Eventually Arbuthnot's secretary received instructions from London to render such assistance as might be necessary to the frigate Galatea. A note was appended to the effect that due to political circumstances of the greatest importance, Galatea had been retained in home waters and her mission undertaken by Cyclops, Captain Henry Hope, R.N.
The secretary therefore prepared an order for her to come in and draw such stores as she required and refit her gear. Arbuthnot signed the order without comment since he was at that time prone to sign almost anything, being nearly blind. On receipt of these orders Cyclops moved to a berth at the Manhattan Dockyard to commence her repairs. On that evening Hope and Devaux dined together. Over their port, several cases of which had been removed from La Creole, Hope drew Devaux's attention to a decision that the weather and the frigate's cranky tophamper had deferred.
'Assuming that we eventually receive definite orders, Devaux, we have to consider the matter of a replacement for Skelton. Cranston was a loss to us and the Service as a whole…'
'Yes,' agreed Devaux nodding. His mind slid back to the dense forest and the sight of Cranston's mutilated body… He tore his mind away from the grisly memory.
'D'ye have any opinions?' asked the Captain.
The first lieutenant recollected himself. 'Well sir, the next senior is Morris. His journals are poorly kept, though he's served the six years… I consider him quite unsuitable and I would appreciate his removal from the ship… indeed I threatened him with it I seem to remember… I am of the opinion that young Drinkwater is a likely candidate for an acting lieutenancy.' He paused. 'But surely, sir, there's a junior in the fleet hereabouts…' Devaux indicated the riding lights of several warships visible through the stern windows.
'An Admiral's favourite d'ye mean, Mr Devaux?' asked Hope archly.
'Just so, sir.'
'But Admiral Arbuthnot informed me that the ship is under Kempenfelt's flag. Who am I to question his decision?' he enquired with mock humility, and then in a harder tone, 'besides I am not disposed to question him on the matter of my midshipmen.' He sipped his port. 'Furthermore I submitted a list of casualties that clearly indicated the state of our complement of officers. If he does not see fit to appoint someone he can go to the devil.' He paused. 'Besides I rather suspect Kempenfelt would approve our choice…' Hope smiled benignly and tossed off the glass.
Devaux raised an eyebrow. 'Old Blackmore will be pleased, he's had Drinkwater under his wing since we left Sheerness.' The two officers refilled their glasses.
'Which,' said Devaux choosing his moment, 'brings me to the matter of Morris sir. I'd be obliged if a transfer could be arranged…'
'That is a little drastic, is it not, Mr Devaux. What's behind this request?'
Devaux outlined the problem and added the remark that in any case Morris would resent serving under Drinkwater. Hope snorted.
'Resent! Why I've resented serving under half the officers I've submitted to. But Morris is fortunate, Mr Devaux. Had I known earlier I'd have broken him. Another time I'll trouble you to tell me as soon as you have any inkling of this kind of thing… it's the bane of the Service and produces officers like that loathsome Edgecumbe…' Hope added expansively.
'Yes, sir,' Devaux changed the subject hastily. 'What are the Admiral's intentions, sir?'
Again Hope snorted. 'Intentions! I wish he had some. Why he and General Clinton sit here in New York waving the Union Flag with enough soldiers to wipe Washington off the face of the earth. Clinton shits himself with indecision at the prospect of losing New York and saves face by sending General Philips into Virginny.
'However I hear that Arbuthnot's to be relieved…'
'Who by, sir?'
'Graves…'
'Good God, not Graves…'
'He's a pleasant enough man which is more than I found Arbuthnot.'
'He's an amiable incompetent, sir. Wasn't he court-martialled for refusing battle with an Indiaman?'
'Yes, back in 'fifty-seven… no 'fifty-six. He was acquitted of cowardice but publicly reprimanded for an error of judgement under the 36th Article of War… you must admit some Indiamen pack a punch…' Both officers smiled ruefully at memories of La Creole.
'D'ye know, John, it's one of the great ironies that on the very day the court at Plymouth sentenced Tommy Graves, a court at Portsmouth got John Byng for a similar offence which was far more strategically justifiable. You know what happened to Byng. They sentenced him under the 12th Article… he was shot on his own quarterdeck…' Hope's voice trailed off.
'Pour encourager les autres…' muttered Devaux. 'Voltaire, sir,' he said in explanation as Hope looked up.
'Ah, that Godless French bastard…'
'Does anyone know what's happened to Cornwallis, sir?'
Hope stirred. 'No! I don't believe any of 'em know anything, John. Now what about my main to'gallant…?'
The next morning Devaux sent for Drinkwater. The lieutenant was staring north up the Hudson River to where the New Jersey Palisades could be seen, catching the early sunlight.
'Sir?'
Devaux turned and regarded the young man. The face had matured now. The ragged line of the wound, rapidly scarring, would hardly alter the flesh over the cheekbones though it might contrast the weathered tan. The figure beneath the worn and patched uniform was spare but fit. Devaux snapped his glass shut.