The flying squadron

Now, however, after the most pressing problem had been at least partially solved, the Admiralty's concern was understandable.

Byron of the Belvidera had reported well of the American squadron's abilities, though outraged he had been attacked without a warning that hostilities had commenced. His escape he had attributed to superior sailing, not knowing the true cause was the explosion of a gun in which Rodgers himself had been wounded. Drinkwater did not share the overweening assumption of superiority nursed by young bloods like Tyrell and Thorowgood. He was too old or too honest with himself not to harbour doubts. Even ship for ship, his squadron matched against a squadron of Yankees could, he admitted privately to himself, be bested.

If Stewart was anything to go by, the American navy did not lack men of temper and determination, young men, too, men with experience of waging war in the Mediterranean, three thousand miles from their nearest base.

'I think we should not regard the Americans with too much contempt, James,' he said, in summation of his thoughts.

But any concurrence from Quilhampton was cut short by Belchambers hailing the deck again.

'Hasty's broken off the chase, sir!'

'Where away is the chase herself?' Drinkwater shouted.

'Can't see her, sir.'

'He's lost her, by God,' snapped Quilhampton.

'She's fast, James,' Drinkwater said consolingly, 'don't blame Tyrell; I tell you these damned Yankees are going to give us all a confounded headache before we're through.'

Quilhampton's sigh of resignation was audible even above the noise of the wind in the rigging, though whether it was submission to Drinkwater's argument or his excuse for  Tyrell's failure, Drinkwater did not know. He felt a twinge of pity for his friend; perhaps Quilhampton himself should be in command of Patrician, perhaps he would make a better job of the task ahead ...

Well,' Quilhampton said, breaking into Drinkwater's gloom, 'at least we've got Warren taking over from that old fart Sawyer at Halifax.'

'Yes. I knew Sir John once, when I was master's mate in the cutter Kestrel. He had command of a flying squadron just after the outbreak of war with France…'

Odd he made that distinction between war with France and war with the United States, when he knew it was all part of the same, interminable struggle.

'Warren had some of the finest frigates in the navy with him, the Flora, the Melampus, the Diamond under Sir Sydney Smith, Nagle's Artois and the Arethusa under Pellew ...'

'And look what we've got,' grumbled Quilhampton, watching Hasty approach. 'Not a bloody Pellew in sight...'

The little sixth-rate bore down towards them. They could see the French ensign at Hasty's gaff, before losing sight of it behind the bellying bunt of her topsails. As she surged past, to dodge under Sprite's stern and come round again in Patrician's wake, Captain Tyrell stood on her rail and raised his hat. Drinkwater acknowledged the salute and felt the wind nearly carry his own into the sea running in marbled green and white between the two frigates.

'Too fast for us, sir!' he heard Tyrell hail, 'A privateer schooner by the look of her. She ran like smoke!'

Drinkwater waved his hat in acknowledgement. It was no more, nor anything less than he had expected.

'The problem is, where to start,' Drinkwater said, leaning over the chart. 'It would be a simple matter if my orders were to blockade the Chesapeake…'

'I'm damned if I know why they aren't, sir,' Quilhampton fizzed.

'It isn't government policy, James, at least not yet. Warren has a damnably difficult job, but he must maintain American supplies to the Tagus. Such a policy may, if we are lucky, promote sentiments of opposition to President Madison who has to maintain at least the illusion of not coming in on the French side in the peninsula. Warren will do his best to foment this discord by appealing to American mercantile avarice and issuing licences.'

'I see,' said Quilhampton, looking at his commander and thinking him unusually well-informed and then remembering the summonses, post-haste, to London from Plymouth. 'On the other hand Yankee avarice will be fired by the vision of plundering our trade,' protested Quilhampton, coming to terms with the enormous complexities Madison's declaration of war had caused. 'And we know the Americans have skilful seamen aplenty, men trained in the mercantile marine...?'

'Who know exactly where to intercept our trade.' Drinkwater overrode Quilhampton's exposition. 'And our task is to sweep — an apt verb for a copying clerk to apply, if impossible to obey in practice — to sweep the seas for American privateers…'

'With a handful of elderly frigates that can't catch a cold in a squall of rain, let alone a Baltimore schooner on or off the wind.' Quilhampton's protesting asides were meant to be signals of sympathy; they only served to irritate Drinkwater. Or was he annoyed because, all unbidden, his eyes were drawn to the legend Potomac on the chart. He fell silent and, watching his face, Quilhampton knew from experience that his expression presaged an idea which, in its turn, would lather a plan. He shifted tack, moved to noises of positive encouragement.

'Of course with good visibility we can form a line abreast to cover fifty miles of sea and if we conduct such a sweep, at a local point of trade, a point at which these smart Yankee skippers will reason they can best intercept a homeward convoy...'

'Yes, but which homeward convoy, James?' Drinkwater snapped, his voice suddenly vibrant with determination.

'Well, the West India trade, sir,' Quilhampton said, riffling through the other charts on the table and drawing out a second one. 'Now the hurricane season is over, I suggest—here.' He stabbed his finger at the northern end of the Florida Strait, where the Gulf Stream favoured homeward ships, but where the channel between the coast and the Great Bahama Banks narrowed to less than sixty miles. 'With the Sprite to increase our scouting front,' went on Quilhampton, 'we could almost completely cover the strait.' He paused, then added, 'Though I suppose we need her in the centre of the line to let slip like a hound and tie down any privateers until we can come up in the frigates.' Pleased with himself, he looked up at Drinkwater.

The captain's face was clouded and he was not looking at the chart of the Florida Strait. Instead he seemed abstracted, as though he had not been listening, obsessed with the chart of the Chesapeake. Quilhampton coughed discreetly, drawing attention to his presence, if not his expressed opinion. Drinkwater looked up.

'Er... yes. Yes. I applaud your tactics, James, but not your strategy.'

'Oh,' Quilhampton bridled, puzzled.

'No offence, but what would you do?'

'As I say, the Florida Strait…'

'No, no, forgive me, I haven't made myself clear. Suppose, well perhaps for you it is not so much a supposition, for you may sympathize with my hypothesis, but suppose you are a bold, resolute American officer — an ambitious man, but not one who gained distinction in the quasi-war with France, or the Tripolitan adventure and, as a result, out of favour, denied a naval ship but, being still a man of influence, one who could command a letter-of-marque, perhaps a small squadron of them…'

'It would make no difference ...'