In the confusion of securing the prizes one Spanish battleship escaped as did the other frigate. With the exception of the San Domingo and the escapees, De Langara's squadron had fallen into Rodney's hands. It was a bitter blow to Spanish naval pride, pride that had already suffered humiliation when late the previous year the treasure flota from the Indies had fallen to marauding British cruisers.
Now the great ships lay at anchor. Fenix was to become Gibraltar and others were to be bought into the British service. Their presence boosted the morale of General Elliott's hard pressed garrison and forced the besiegers to stop and think. Behind the fleet the convoy had arrived safely and the military dined their naval colleagues. Midshipmen, however, at least those of Cyclops dined aboard, on hard tack, pease pudding and salt pork.
During her stay at Gibraltar Cyclops became a happy ship. She had come through a fleet action with distinction and the experience had united her crew into a true ship's company. Her casualties had been light, four dead and twenty-one wounded, mostly by splinters or falling wreckage. Every morning as the hands turned up there was not a man among them who did not cast his eyes in the direction of the Santa Teresa. The Spanish frigate was their own, special badge of honour.
The men worked enthusiastically repairing the damage to Cyclops. It was a task that fascinated Drinkwater. The elements of seamanship he already knew were augmented by the higher technicalities of masting and rigging and when Lieutenant Devaux turned his attention to the Santa Teresa his knowledge was further increased. The first lieutenant had taken a liking to Drinkwater after their sojourn together on the captured frigate. Revived from his faint Devaux had found him an eager and intelligent pupil once his stomach had been filled.
Cyclops's crew spared no effort to efface as much of the damage their own cannon had done to the Santa Teresa so that the frigate presented as good an appearance as possible to the prize court. Presided over by Adam Duncan, Rodney's Vice-Admiral, this august body was holding preliminary hearings into the condition of the fleet's prizes before despatching those suitable back to England. Once this intelligence had been passed to the hands they worked with a ferocious energy.
The intensive employment of Cyclops's crew meant that the midshipmen were often absent and rarely all on board at the same time. For the first time Drinkwater felt comparatively free of the influence of Morris. Occupied as they all were there was little opportunity for the senior midshipman to bully his hapless juniors. The anticipation of vast sums of prize money induced a euphoria in all minds and even the twisted Morris felt something of this corporate elevation.
Then, for Drinkwater, all this contentment ended.
Cyclops had lain in Gibraltar Bay for eleven days. The repairs were completed and work was almost finished aboard the Santa Teresa. Her spars were all prepared and it was time to send up her new topmasts. Devaux had taken almost the entire crews of Cyclops over to the Spaniard to make light of the hauling and heaving. Topmen and waisters, marines, gunners, fo'c's'le men were all set to man the carefully arranged tackles and set up the rigging.
Captain Hope was ashore with Lieutenant Keene and only a handful of men under the master kept the deck. The remainder, off-duty men, slept or idled below. A drowsy atmosphere had settled over the frigate exemplified by Mr Blackmore and the surgeon, Appleby, who lounged on the quarterdeck, their energies spent by recent exertions.
Drinkwater had been sent with the launch to pass the convoy orders to a dozen transports in the outer bay. These ships were bound for Port Mahon and Cyclops would be escorting them.
As he returned to Cyclops he passed Santa Teresa. The sound of O'Malley's fiddle floated over the calm water. Signs of activity were visible, the creak of tackles lifting heavy weights clearly audible as two spars rose up the newly erected masts. Drinkwater waved to Midshipman Beale as the launch swept round the frigate's stern. The yellow and red of her superimposed ensign almost brushed the oarsmen as it drooped disconsolately under the British colour. Drinkwater brought the launch alongside the mainchains of Cyclops.
Mr Blackmore languidly acknowledged his report. Drinkwater went below. He had half expected to find Morris on deck, not wishing to encounter him in the cockpit. So intense was Drinkwater's loathing of Morris that he would return to the deck rather than remain in his company below. There was something, something indefinable, about him that Nathaniel found distasteful without knowing what it was.
Between decks Cyclops was dim and almost silent. The creaking of her fabric went unnoticed by Drinkwater. A few men sat at the mess tables slung between the guns, lounging and talking. Some swung in hammocks and several watched Drinkwater with idle curiosity. Then one, a fox-faced man named Humphries, nudged his neighbour. A large topman turned round. Drinkwater scarcely noticed the malice that appeared in Threddle's eyes.
He descended to the orlop and turned aft to where, screened off with canvas, the frigate's 'young gentlemen' lived. Drinkwater was happily oblivious of the menace in the air. The foetid atmosphere of the orlop was dark; a darkness punctured by swinging lanterns suspended at intervals from the low deckhead which glowed dimly in the poor air. Drinkwater approached the canvas flap which answered the midshipmen for a door.
He was stopped in his tracks.
At first he was completely uncomprehending. Then the memory of similar, half-glimpsed, actions, and a pang of instinctive recognition in his own loins brought the realisation slamming home to him.
He felt sick.
Morris was naked from the waist down. The handsome young seaman from the main top was bent over a midshipman's chest. There was little doubt what was happening.
For a few seconds Drinkwater was rooted to the spot, helplessly watching Morris's breathless exertions. Then Drinkwater noticed the initials on the chest: 'N.D.' He turned and ran, stumbling along the orlop, desperate for the cool freshness of the upper deck.
He ran full-tilt into Threddle who hurled him back. Drinkwater staggered and, before he could recover, Threddle and Humphries were lugging him aft. Drinkwater struggled in pure terror at re-entering his dismal quarters.
Threddle threw him forward and he fell on his back. For a minute he closed his eyes then a kick in the kidneys forced them open. A fully dressed Morris stood looking down at him. Threddle and Humphries were behind the midshipman. The handsome seaman had shrunk into a corner. He was crying.
'What are we goin' to do wiv 'im, Mr Morris?' asked Humphries his eyes glittering with possibilities. Morris looked at Drinkwater his own eyes veiled. He licked his lips considering the physical possibilities himself. Perhaps he read something in Drinkwater's expression, perhaps his lusts were temporarily slaked or perhaps he feared the consequences of discovery. At last he came to his decision and bent over Nathaniel.