The flying squadron

'Hold your fire, Moncrieff. Cease fire there, cease fire!'

The officer on the deck below him staggered and Drinkwater realized the schooner was sinking beneath his feet.

'Mr Q,' he called, 'have a boat lowered. Mr Davies is to take the survivors off, and pass word to the surgeon to expect some badly wounded. Mr Porter, recall your gunners before they lose their heads completely.' He raised the speaking trumpet again. 'Lady Lennox 'hoy!'

An officer in the panoply of the Honourable East India Company appeared at the rail. 'Have you suffered much?' Drinkwater enquired.

'A score or so killed and twice as many wounded, mostly lascars and coolies, sir,' the officer said dismissively. 'We took round shot through the hull, but we can plug the holes.' Drinkwater recalled the heavy traversing cannon now hidden under the wrecked top-hamper of the schooner.

'What's the news from the starboard side?' Drinkwater called.

'Much the same. Your frigate's hauling off with the enemy secured alongside. My commander, Captain Barnard, presents his compliments and his deepest sense of obligation to you, sir, and desires to know your name.'

'My respects to Captain Barnard, sir,' Drinkwater replied. 'My name is Drinkwater, Nathaniel Drinkwater, and I am glad to be of service.'

'You have saved the Company a fortune, Captain Drinkwater.'

'I am glad to hear it...'

'I know that man,' Moncrieff's voice suddenly announced, cutting through the calm that followed the surrender and the exchange between Drinkwater and the Lady Lennox's officer. 'That fellow staring up at us; he was in the Potomac'

Distracted, Drinkwater looked down again. The officer with the shattered hand was swaying, the stain of blood on the canvas beside him spreading darkly.

'God's bones,' Drinkwater blasphemed, 'get him aboard at once. It's Tucker!'

CHAPTER 17 The Flying Squadron

February 1813

'Who commands you?' Drinkwater asked. Ashen-faced, Lieutenant Tucker lolled in the chair, eyes closed, panting with pain. His roughly bandaged hand with a tourniquet above the wrist lay across his breast. Quilhampton stood anxiously at his shoulder.

It was growing dark in the cabin and other matters clamoured for attention as night fell. 'Come, sir, answer. You may see the surgeon the moment you have told me what I want to know. Who commands you?'

Eyes closed, Tucker shook his head. Drinkwater and Quilhampton exchanged glances. 'It's Stewart, isn't it, eh? Captain Stewart?' Drinkwater raised his voice, cutting through the fog of agony clouding Tucker's consciousness, 'late of the Stingray.'

Tucker's eyes flickered open; the small affirmative was enough for Drinkwater. 'Is there a frigate with you?'

There was no doubt, even in his befuddled state, of Tucker's surprise. 'Frigate...' he murmured, adding a second word that Drinkwater failed to catch.

'What did he say?'

'Didn't hear, sir, answered Quilhampton, bending over the prisoner.

'Come, sir, you're a damned pirate. You ain't a naval officer and can't expect exchange in a cartel. Answer me and I'll do my best to see you aren't thrown into Dartmoor Gaol. In the meantime you need the services of my surgeon. Is there a frigate in the offing? An American frigate?'

Something like comprehension passed a shadow over Tucker's face, he moved on the chair, tried to draw himself upright, shook his head and muttered, 'Not an American…'

'He said, "Not an American ..."'

'I heard him, James ... A French frigate, then? Is that it? There's a French frigate to the eastward?'

Tucker's face crumpled, he closed his eyes tightly, and sank into the chair. The bandages wrapped around his stump were sodden with blood.

'Good God!' Drinkwater ran a hand through his hair, "Tis worse than I thought...' He looked up at Quilhampton. 'James, I'll stake my hat the lost Indiamen and a French frigate are to the eastward ... I'll have to explain later. Be a good fellow and see to Tucker here.'

'I'll get him below, sir ...'

'No, he's a brave fellow, we'll spare him the indignity of Pym's cockpit. Have Pym operate on him here.'

Drinkwater stood for a moment beside the wounded American and put a hand on his shoulder. 'You've betrayed nothing, Mr Tucker, I assure you, merely confirmed my suspicions. Mr Quilhampton will attend to you, he knows what it's like to lose a hand. Give him some laudanum, James, I fear I've used him barbarously.'

Running on deck Drinkwater cast a quick look about him. Night was upon them. The convoy was to the north-north-west, etched black against the last gleam of twilight. Both Patrician and Cymbeline had detached themselves from the convoy and lay hove-to in its wake. All that remained of the schooner Patrician had crushed was some wreckage, dark debris on the grey surface of the ocean. Thorowgood was busy putting a prize-crew aboard the other which, a master's mate in one of Cymbeline's boats was just then reporting to Lieutenant Gordon, had proved to be the Shark of Baltimore.

'Tell Captain Thorowgood to rejoin the convoy with Sprite and his prize,' Drinkwater called down to the boat, 'I'm going in pursuit.'

Ashby and Sundercombe had ably covered the convoy's rear. Discovering the force against them, the remaining privateers had not pressed their attack. They were making off in the darkness to windward as fast as they could with Icarus in lagging pursuit and Sprite hard on their heels, white blurs in the gathering night. Drinkwater waved the boat off and rounded on Wyatt.

'Set the stuns'ls, Mr Wyatt, and lay me a course to the eastward.'

'The eastward, sir?' Wyatt stared at the dull gleam of Icarus's battle lantern to the southward.

'Yes, damn you, the eastward. Mr Gordon, make to Icarus and Sprite: discontinue the chase. The night signal, if you please.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Quilhampton hauled himself wearily up the quarterdeck ladder. He was aware he had misjudged Drinkwater.

'Well, James,' Drinkwater said briskly, 'I'm setting the kites.'

'You're going in pursuit, sir?' Quilhampton threw a bewildered look at the disparate heading of the schooners and Patrician. Wyatt gave a mighty shrug. Drinkwater laughed. His spirits were soaring. 'I'm after bigger fish than those minnows, James ...'

'Tucker's frigate?'

'Tucker's frigate.'

'You're certain of her being there?'

'As certain of anything in this perilous life, James.'

'Sometime, sir, you might oblige me with an explanation.'

Drinkwater laughed again. 'The moment I'm proved right.' Tiredness and then the exhilaration of the last hours had raised Drinkwater's morale to a pitch of almost unbearable anticipation. 'Is Tucker being attended to?' he asked, in an attempt to recapture the dignity consonant with his rank.

'He's under Pym's knife at the moment, sir.'

'Pym's a good surgeon and Tucker looked to have the constitution of an ox.'

'Very well.'

The formal, non-commital response might have described them all. They had done very well. He was ridiculously pleased he had harangued his captains. It was perhaps fortunate that their gunnery had not been tested, that they had confronted nothing more than privateers, but they had manoeuvred like veterans and he must remember to say so in his report to their Lordships. The escaping schooners were unlikely to return to harry the convoy; they had been thoroughly frightened. Guile and skilful ship-handling had brought the British a local ascendancy. Now, Drinkwater mused, they must hold the advantage surprise had conferred.