As they worked their way south-west, Drinkwater gradually became aware that he could see the shore and the dark shapes of the trees more and more clearly. Their tops moved languidly in the beginnings of a breeze, no longer grey monotones, but assuming the dark and variegated greens of which he knew them to be composed. The fog was lifting.
Then, almost it seemed in the sky itself, the topgallant yards of the first ship appeared above them. It was the American privateer anchored closest inshore.
Ahead of them Frey, whose boat still ghosted through the clammy vapour, had seen this apparition and altered course towards it. With a surge of jubilation, Drinkwater realized that though the fog was dispersing, the shift of wind which caused it had merely altered the relative balance of nature. He had seen sea-smoke in the Arctic years before, and now his boat pulled happily through it as it clung to the surface, rising no more than ten or fifteen feet, exposing the top-hamper of the enemy while concealing their own approach.
He made a gesture to Wells and the coxswain leaned on the tiller. Drinkwater's boat pulled out to pass Frey and edge round the enemy, clear of her and obscured by the low fog. They could see the grey loom of the American ship and then lost sight of Frey as his boat dropped alongside and merged with her.
From on board he could distinctly hear a voice sing out, 'Lower all, handsomely! Avast! Come up!' The accent was unmistakably American and Drinkwater was immeasurably encouraged by this, for they were clearly still loading cargo.
Drinkwater felt his own sleeve being plucked and swung round. Wells was pointing ahead, to where the next ship was looming. Her hull seemed more distinct, the sea-smoke less dense. An empty boat lay under her stern davits, and a rope ladder dangled invitingly down from an open stern window. As they closed it, they could see the boat was picked out in white and blue, with some fancy gold gingerbread work along her quarters. Beneath the windows the privateer's name was carved, gold letters on a blue background: General Wayne.
Without a word, the coxswain ran alongside, the bowman caught the painter round a thwart on the enemy boat and several oarsmen manoeuvred the trailing cutter alongside their own unengaged side.
A moment later two men were swarming up the ladder, the first signalled the cabin was empty and then there was a general scramble as men clambered aboard, helped to lower lines and hoisted the combustible stores they had brought with them. They lifted the inflammables in through the cabin windows. Drinkwater motioned for the barricoes of powder which would form the explosive mines to be rolled towards him and flung back the rich carpet that was spread across the deck of the cabin to reveal the hatchway to the lazarette below. He was crouched beside it when the cabin door suddenly opened. The American commander Drinkwater had last seen aboard the Odin stood transfixed in the doorway. The look of insolence he had shown on the former occasion was gone, and now he wore an expression of incomprehension which turned rapidly to alarm.
Drinkwater had had his back to the door as he inspected the hatch. Fitted with a bar and hasp, this would have been padlocked under normal circumstances. But the ship had been in action and the padlock had not been replaced. The carpet, however, had been roughly pulled back over the hatchway with its loose bar and Drinkwater had been in the act of lifting the bar clear when the American had appeared.
Even as the Yankee commander opened his mouth, Drinkwater struck. Twisting with all his strength he straightened his legs, swinging upwards from his crouching position, the bar in his hand. The blunt edge struck the American violently, winding him so that he buckled forward. One of the seamen grabbed him, drew him into the cabin and shut the door.
For a moment not a man moved, but no alarm was raised outside and Drinkwater had his hanger at the man's throat as he gasped for breath.
'Get on with it!' Drinkwater hissed, and the tableau dissolved, the men tearing off the lazarette hatchway and stuffing it and the cabin full with the mines, powder and oil-soaked rags.
Drinkwater bent to the American. 'I'm going to save your life and I'm going to gag you, then you go down into my boat. One false move and you are dead. Do you understand?'
The American commander was still gasping for his breath, but he nodded and Drinkwater grabbed a passing seaman. 'Give me your kerchief. Now, you are to take this man back to the boat…'
From somewhere beyond the window a dull thud sounded: Frey's party had either been discovered or had begun their work of destruction.
'Out, you men!'
They seemed to take an interminable time to scramble back through the open stern window. Drinkwater could hear cries of alarm on deck and the pad-pad of running feet. Any moment now and there would be someone reporting to the privateer's commander.
'Ready, sir.' Wells had the hat-box open and the slow-match in his hand. Drinkwater nodded and the match was touched to the first of the three mines. When its fuse was alight, Drinkwater dropped it into the lazarette. 'Get out!' he ordered. 'Get back to the boat!'
The shouting on deck had increased. He took the slow-match and touched it to the protruding fuse of the second mine and rolled it into a mass of rags. The third he had just ignited when the door opened for the second time:
'Cap'n Hughes ... what the hell ...?'
Drinkwater's pistol ball smashed into the man's chest, flinging him backwards, his breastbone broken. Drinkwater threw the weapon after it and made for the window. Below him the men were tumbling into the boat and beyond them there was an orange glow which leached through the last of the fog and grew as he watched. Frey's party had been successful and the American privateer astern of the General Wayne was well ablaze.
'Hey! Look!'
The voice came from above, where the General Wayne's people had run aft to see what had happened to their consort and who now, staring down, saw the British seamen climbing out of their own ship and into the strange boats trailing astern.
'The bastards have been aboard of us!' The voices were outraged, surprised and affronted.
'They've been in the bloody cabin!'
'Here, get me a rifle!' Above Drinkwater's head the urgent sound of hurrying footsteps passed to and fro.
'Pass some muskets, quick!'
Drinkwater could see the men settle at their thwarts and Wells looked up at him, his face anxious and expectant. Drinkwater waved his boat away, unwilling to shout and betray his own presence. The coxswain looked nonplussed and Drinkwater made violent, swimming motions. Wells understood; the initial oar strokes of the boat's crew coincided with the report of a musket from the quarterdeck above.
'Another shot and your cap'n's a dead duck!' Wells roared defiantly, his arm round the wild-eyed figure gagged beside him.
'Christ! They've got the cap'n!' an American voice warned.
This last confusion gave Drinkwater the momentary respite he needed. He glanced back into the cabin. The fuses on the mines sizzled, that on the first he had lit must almost have burned through. The last thing he noticed, as he turned back to the window, was the tin hat-box and the name Thos. Huke executed in white upon its blackjapanned surface.
Climbing on to the window ledge, he dived into the sea.
The water was shockingly, numbingly cold. He surfaced, gasping, and drew a great, reflexive breath. A ball smacked into the water close by, and he struck out wildly. Another raised a short, vicious spurt of water alongside his head and he felt a sharp blow to his arm, but no pain as he plunged on.