But the exertions of the night affected men differently. As Blackmore turned away in defeat Hope saw his last opportunity. Shedding years at the prospect of such a prize his caution fell a prey to temptation. After a life spent in a Service which had consistently robbed him of a reputation for dash or glamour, fate was holding out a fiscal prize of enormous magnitude. All he had to do was apply some of the expertise that his years of seagoing had given him.
'Wear ship, Mr Blackmore.'
The captain turned and bumped into a slim figure hurrying aft.
'B… Beg pardon sir.'
Drinkwater had descended from the foretop. He touched his hat to the captain.
'Well?'
'Shoal's a mile to leeward, sir.' For a minute Hope studied the young face: he showed promise.
'Thank you, Mr, er…'
'Drinkwater, sir.'
'Quite so. Remain with me; my messenger's gone…' The captain indicated the remains of his twelve-year-old midshipman messenger. The sight of the small, broken body made Drinkwater feel very light headed. He was cold and very hungry. He was aware that the frigate was manoeuvring close to the crippled Spaniard, paying off downwind…
'First lieutenant's on the gun-deck, see how long he'll be.' Uncomprehending the midshipman hurried off. Below the shadowy scene in the gun-deck was ordered. A hundred gunners lugged a huge rope aft. Drinkwater discovered the first lieutenant right aft and passed the message. Devaux grunted and then, over his shoulder ordered, 'Follow me.' They both ran back to the quarterdeck.
'Nearly ready, sir,' said Devaux striding past the captain to the taffrail. He lugged out his hanger and cut the log ship from its line and called Drinkwater.
'Coil that for heaving, young shaver.' He indicated the long log line coiled in its basket. For an instant the boy stood uncertainly then, recollecting the way Tregembo had taught him he began to coil the line.
Devaux was bustling round a party of sailors bringing a coil of four-inch rope aft. He hung over the taffrail, dangling one end and shouting at someone below. Eventually the end was caught; drawn inboard and secured to the heavy cable. Devaux stood upright and one of the seamen took the log line and secured it to the four-inch rope.
Devaux seemed satisfied. 'Banyard,' he said to the seaman. 'Heave that at the Spaniard when I give the word.'
Cyclops was closing the crippled frigate. She seemed impossibly large as the two ships closed, the rise and fall between them fifteen to twenty feet.
The two ships were very close now. The Spaniard's bowsprit rose and fell, raking aft along Cyclops's side. Figures were visible on her fo'c's'le as the bowsprit jutted menacingly over the knot of figures at the after end of Cyclops. If it ripped the spanker Cyclops was doomed since she would again become unmanageable, falling off before the gale. The spar rose again then fell as the frigate wallowed in a trough. It hit Cyclops's taffrail, caught for an instant then tore free with a splintering of wood. At a signal from Devaux Banyard's line snaked dextrously out to tangle at the gammoning of the bowsprit dipping towards the British stern.
'Come on, boy!' shouted Devaux. In an instant he had leapt up and caught the spar, heaving himself over it, legs kicking out behind him. Without thinking, impelled by the force of the first lieutenant's determination Drinkwater had followed. Below them Cyclops dropped away and was past.
The wind tore at Drinkwater's coat tails as he cautiously followed Devaux aft along the spar. The dangling raffle of gear afforded plenty of handholds and it was not long before he stood with his superior on the Spanish forecastle.
A resplendently attired officer was footing a bow at Devaux and proferring his sword. Devaux, impatient at the inactivity of the Spaniards, ignored him. He made signs at the officer who had first secured the heaving line and a party of seamen were soon heaving in the four-inch rope. The moon emerged again and Devaux turned to Drinkwater. He nodded at the insistently bobbing Spaniard.
'For God's sake take it. Then return it — we need their help.'
Nathaniel Drinkwater thus received the surrender of the thirty-eight gun frigate Santa Teresa. He managed a clumsy bow on the plunging deck and as graciously as he knew how, aware of his own gawkiness, he handed the weapon back. The moonlight shone keenly on the straight Toledo blade.
Devaux was shouting again: 'Men! Men! Hombres! Hombres!' The four-inch had arrived on board and the weight of the big hawser was already on it. Gesticulating wildly and miming with his body Devaux urged the defeated Spaniards to strenuous activity. He pointed to leeward. 'Muerto! Muerto!'
They understood.
To windward Hope was tacking Cyclops. It was vital that Devaux secured the tow in seconds. The four-inch snaked in. Then it snagged. The big ten-inch rope coming out of the water had caught on something under Santa Teresa's bow.
'Heave!' screamed Devaux, beside himself with excitement. Cyclops would feel the drag of that rope. She might fail to pay off on the starboard tack…
Suddenly it came aboard with a rush. The floating hemp rose on a wave and swept aboard as Santa Teresa's bow fell into a steep trough.
Drinkwater was astonished. Where she had been rolling wildly the seas had been breaking harmlessly alongside. He sensed something was wrong. That sea had broken over them. He looked around. The sea was white in the moonlight and breaking as on a beach. They were in the breakers of the San Lucar shoal. Above the howl of the wind and the screaming of the Spanish officers the thunder of the Atlantic flinging itself on to the bank was a deep and terrifying rumble.
Devaux sweated over the end of the ten-inch rope. 'Get a gun fired quick!'
Drinkwater pointed to a cannon and mimed a ramming motion. 'Bang!' he shouted.
The sailors understood and a charge was quickly rammed home. Drinkwater grabbed the linstock and jerked it. It fired. He looked anxiously at Cyclops. Several Spaniards were staring fearfully to leeward. 'Dios!' said one, crossing himself. Others did the same.
Slowly Devaux breathed out. Cyclops had tacked successfully. The hemp rose from the water and took the strain. It creaked and Drinkwater looked to where Devaux had passed a turn round Santa Teresa's fore mast and wracked lashings on it. More were being passed by the sailors. The Santa Teresa trembled. Men looked fearfully at each other. Was it the effect of the tow or had she struck the bottom?
Cyclops's stern rose then plunged downwards. The rope was invisible in the darkness which had again engulfed them but it was secured and Santa Teresa began to turn into the wind. Very slowly Cyclops hauled her late adversary to the south-west, clawing a foot to windward for every yard she made to the south.
Devaux turned to the midshipman and clapped him on the back. His face broke into a boyish grin.
'We've done it, cully, by God, we've done it!'
Drinkwater slid slowly to the deck, the complete oblivion of fatigue enveloping him.
Chapter Five
The Evil that Men do…
Rodney's fleet lay at anchor in Gibraltar Bay licking its wounds with a sense of satisfaction. The evidence of their victory was all about them, the Spanish warships wearing British colours over their own.
The battle had annihilated Don Juan de Langara's squadron. Four battleships had struck by midnight. The Admiral in Fenix surrendered to Rodney but Sandwich had pressed on. At about 2 a.m. on the 17th she overhauled the smaller Monarcha and compelled her to strike her colours with one terrible broadside. By this time, as Cyclops struggled to secure Santa Teresa in tow, both fleets were in shoaling water. Two seventy-gun ships, the San Julian and San Eugenio, ran helplessly aground with terrible loss of life. The remainder, Spanish and British, managed to claw off to windward.