The French Admiral (12 page)

“What do you see, Lewrie?” Carey called out below him, hopping up and down in excitement.

“God, what a sight,” Alan breathed. “It's glorious, it truly is! They're all in range for good practice now—Drake's ships and the French van. You can see only the topmasts and tops'ls of the Frogs, now and then a stab of flame from a gun barrel through the smoke. Our ships are so full of powder fumes they look like they're on fire!”

All the officers were too busy with their telescopes to note if they were sneaking a look. Lewrie reached down and hoisted Carey into place with him.

“Good Lord in Heaven!” Carey exclaimed in wonder. “Oh, I shall remember this all the days of my life.”

The cannonading increased in fury and volume as he spoke and more ships came within range, and the guns slammed and boomed and barked in an unending storm of fire and metal. As far as they both could see, there were many ships —a forest of ships—with their courses brailed up to avoid the risk of flames, their tops'ls shot through like rags, upper masts hanging drunkenly here and there in both dueling lines of battle. The air quivered with the shock of broadsides, rattling their internal organs, setting their lungs humming with the power and terror of modern warfare. In the British line closest to them, they could witness shot ricocheting off the sea and raising tall waterspouts, could see hard-flung iron balls smashing home to tear loose clouds of paint chips, wood splinters, and spurts of ingrained dust and dirt, striking great sparks when encountering metal and shattering on impact with something as solid as themselves.

“The French line is much longer, isn't it,” Carey said, tears of passion streaking his smutty face. “Why does not Admiral Hood engage back there?”

“They might double on him if he did,” Alan said. “They could cut across the end of his line to windward and fall back down to fight on both sides of his ships at once. Perhaps he is waiting for them to try, and he will rake them across their bows when they turn up.”

“Alan,” Carey said, suddenly dead serious. “I know that war is a terrible thing. But is it so terrible that it is wrong to feel as though we are seeing something grand?”

“I don't think so, it's what they pay sailors for,” Alan japed.

“So it would not be wrong to say that I love this?” Carey pressed.

“No.” Alan smiled. “I confess I love it, too.”

“Good, 'cause so do I,” Carey said fiercely.

“Mind you, young Carey, I only say that because we are not being shot at personally,” Alan admitted wryly. “You can cheer all the fame and honor and glory you like when you're seated in the balconies.”

Men were dying over there, ships were slowly being torn asunder by the shocking weight and power of iron; gun carriages were being overturned and their crews pulped in agony, riven by splinters or swatted dead like flies. The hideous reality was, however, over there, and not here in the
Desperate,
and even with prime examples of butchery not a month in the past to use as an example and a warning, Lewrie could not deny the fact that he was choking up with a pride he had never expected to feel in the Service. His eyes were moist and hot, his throat tight with emotion.

Marine Captain Osmonde back in
Ariadne
was right, he decided grimly. This is brutal and bloody and cruel and horrible, and it can eat a man up but I swear to God above that I truly do love it! They have made me into a sailor, damn them all, and I will make an officer of myself if I live to manage it!

Shrewsbury,
lead ship of all the British line, came reeling out of battle, surrendering her place of honor as she could no longer maintain control over herself. Her rigging was shot to pieces so badly that she had barely a shred of sail aloft. Her gangways and bulwarks on her engaged side were pockmarked and shattered with shot holes, the oak stained black with spent gunpowder.
Desperate
's people gave her a rousing cheer as she retired, having done all she could do. Sadly,
Intrepid,
the next ship in line, looked in about the same poor condition; her rudder hanging in tatters from her stern posts, she was being steered by relieving tackle below decks, but she still fought. Next,
Princessa
was missing her maintopgallant mast and the spanker over the quarterdeck. Her lower shrouds were shot through, threatening the stability of her masts as she rolled.
Ajax,
to her rear, had hardly any top hamper left, and
Terrible
was listing noticeably, her lower gunports dangerously close to the water, and her foremast spiralled back and forth as though it would go by the board at any moment. The other ships astern of her could barely be made out in the pall of smoke.

But there was Hood's rear division, now almost dead astern of
Desperate,
nowhere near firing range, maintaining a maddening line ahead and showing no eagerness to engage, almost parallel to the French line.

“Why does he not bear down,” Lewrie said, almost wringing his hands in frustration. “Damme, he's throwing away the last chance we have.”

“Get down from there, now,” Mister Gwynn suddenly ordered, up from his magazines to survey the battle with the freedom his warrant gave him. “Set a good example for the hands, Mister Lewrie.”

“Aye, Mister Gwynn,” Alan replied.

“'Twas this very way with Byng in the last war in the Mediterranean,” Gwynn commented as softly as he could once he had strolled aft by Lewrie and young Carey. “Back when I was a raw rammer man. The way sea battles are. Half the ships never get a chance ta fire a shot.”

“You'd think there was a better way,” Alan complained. “To bear down and break through the other line or something.”

“Not for the likes of us to say, Mister Lewrie.”

“Goddamme, what a waste.”

“War mostly is a waste,” Gwynn grunted, cutting himself a plug of tobacco to cram into his cheeks. “Anythin' that takes a man outen a woman's bed and away from easy reach of a bottle is a waste, t' my thinkin'.”

By half after six in the evening, Cape Henry was far astern and almost under the horizon. The action still raged, though the broadsides were becoming very ragged and slow, the gun crews decimated and stunned into numb exhaustion from the continual roar and the shock of horror piled upon horror on those gun decks.

It was also possible that ships were running low on powder and shot; a battle that long would have emptied
Desperate
's magazines hours before.

They had not fired a shot themselves but had stood down from quarters after rendering what aid they could to the crippled
Shrewsbury.
Alan rotated to signals duty on the quarterdeck as cold food was issued, and small beer or American spruce beer was passed liberally to quench the dry throats among the crew.

With a better vantage point, Alan noted that the worst-damaged French ships were able to slip away to leeward to allow fresh vessels to take their place from that reserve in the rear, still untouched by Hood, who had not budged from his role of disinterested spectator. Alan felt a cold anger seething in his breast at an act which he could only describe as that of the ultimate poltroon. He lifted his telescope to see better as the light began to fade.
London
was not looking good, nor did any British ship that had managed to engage, and Alan could imagine the letter of rebuke that Graves would send Hood once he had a chance.

There was something different about the
London—
what was it?

“Signal is down, sir!” he shouted, having discovered what was missing.

“Watch her closely,” Treghues said, almost at his elbow. Alan took a sideways glance at his young captain and was shocked. Treghues looked a dozen years older. He was gray in the face and barely a shadow of himself. He held his mouth in a bitter arc of disapproval, and Alan felt that for once the displeasure he evinced was not toward him personally, but toward the entire conduct of the day.

About five minutes later a single flag hoist went up a hal-yard, a blue and white checkered flag. Lowering his telescope, Alan consulted the short list to find the meaning. “Goddamn and blast,” he whispered sadly, almost drained of emotion or the ability to be surprised by anything. “Signal, sir: ‘Discontinue action.' Yeoman, hoist a repeat on that.”

“I see,” Treghues said. “Thank you, Mister Lewrie.”

There was no groan of disappointment heard on
Desperate,
no low curses or signs of reaction. Perhaps men slumped just a bit more on hearing the import of that one colored bit of bunting. The battle had been fought, and it appeared from where they stood that they had just lost it.

CHAPTER 4

P
erhaps
Midshipman Carey's
geste
against Midshipman Forrester was not the most aptly timed event in the continual war of wills in the mess that Alan had seen yet, nor was it particularly bright to jape so soon after such a galling failure as the Battle of the Chesapeake. The repercussions did not bear thinking about, and had Lewrie or Avery had a chance to talk Carey out of it, they most definitely would have. But, given Lewrie's own recent history and the series of misadventures that seemed to dog his existence, it was much of a piece, and therefore seemed almost fated.

Once full dark had fallen, the galley stoves had been lit and the steep-tubs began to bubble and boil to prepare the crew's dinner, though few men or officers who had eaten with such gusto at dinner in the forenoon watch had much of an appetite for their plain-commons supper. Avery was in the evening watch, which left Carey, Forrester, and Lewrie in their small mess compartment to be served boiled salt beef and biscuits, livened only by a communal pot of mustard and the watered-down issue of red wine come aboard in New York, with a redolence of varnish. There were only four men in their mess, and the normal issue for a seaman's mess of eight was a four-pound cut of meat. Minus gristle and bone, it might make a third of a pound of meat for each man. Theirs, however, was even tougher than most, composed of more useless junk, and had the consistency, even after boiling, of old leather.

“Freeling, if you do not deal sharply with the mess cook when they choose the joints, I shall see you at the gratings,” Forrester threatened, throwing his utensils down in disgust. “This is inedible!”

“Aye, zur,” Freeling answered noncommittally. He was half dead already, a toothless oldster of forty who appeared over sixty from a hard life of seafaring, herniated from hoisting kegs with stay tackle once too often, shattered by too many years aloft in all weathers. He had seen too many midshipmen come and go and turn into officers, and held a particular abiding hatred for each and every one of them. Even bribes could not move him to charitable efforts on their behalf.

“I mean it this time, damn your eyes,” Forrester snarled.

“You're not going to eat that?” Carey asked, eyeing his plate and the raggled strands of meat. Carey would eat anything.

Forrester did not answer but picked up his utensils once more and began to gouge at the beef to carve it into bite-sized pieces. It was much like trying to slice old rope with the edge of a fork as the only appliance.

“Why not just pick it up and gnaw?” Alan said. Forrester was the only person he had ever seen who seemed to prosper on ships' rations. The lad had been fat as a piglet when Alan came aboard in spring, and now was in such fine and obese fettle as to excite the fantasy that soon some villagers would trice him up by his heels and bleed him for the fall killing. It was September after all, almost time for the first frosts and the slaughter of excess animals for the salt kegs or the smokehouses.

“That would be more your style,” Forrester said. “I leave it to you. Such a lot of peasants! God rot the lot of you!”

“Did you hear some snuffling and rooting, Carey?” Alan jibed. “My ears definitely did. Or was it human speech after all?”

“Oink, oink,” Carey said through a mouthful of biscuit.

“Do not row me tonight, Lewrie,” Forrester snapped. “Perhaps this performance of ours today did not affect you, but, by God, it angered me!”

“But it did not seem to affect your appetite,” Lewrie said, happy to have Forrester to abuse to alleviate his own sense of gloom concerning the battle.
Desperate
had been short two midshipmen when he had come into her
—
one had drowned, the other was a raging sponge who had been drunk most of the time and was finally dismissed, a hard feat to accomplish at any level of English society in these days. Forrester had been the tyrant of the mess until Avery and Lewrie had sided with Carey and played one prank after another on him until Forrester had been driven almost to distraction. It enlivened the usual drabness of their existence, and there was little that Forrester could do about it. One did not complain to superiors that one could not hold his own against the spiteful cruelty of his peers. It was their rough and tumble microcosm of society, where lads as young as ten or twelve became men along with becoming potential officers, and if one could not cope, one could not hope to prosper. It had come to blows a few times, at which point Forrester could only snarl and withdraw and scheme to gain his revenge, an event that so far he had never achieved, for with three against one, he had no chance. His not being the brightest person ever dropped also had a great deal to do with Forrester's frustrations.

Angry or not, Forrester managed to clean his plate and call for the cheese after Freeling had removed the joint to save the last of it for Avery.

“A small slice for me,” Carey said as Forrester cut into the hoop of fairly fresh Cheddar recently shipped from England.

“Cut it yourself,” Forrester replied, still sulking and taking the equal of two men's shares.

“Oink, oink,” Carey said again.

“Damn you, will you stop that stupid noise!” Forrester barked, rising from his seat and taking a swing at the younger boy with the back of his hand. Before Lewrie could respond and deflect the blow completely, he had succeeded in cuffing Carey on the head.

“How would you like me to kick your nutmegs up between your teeth, Forrester,” Alan warned, grabbing the offending hand and holding it immobile against Forrester's best efforts to free it. “By God, it's blow for blow in here, and well you know it, just like a Scottish feud.”

“Goddamn you, Lewrie, unhand me,” Forrester commanded, squirming with the effort to free himself. “I'll square your yards for you!”

“The hell you will,” Alan said, laughing cruelly. “You may inherit your daddy's title and rents, but you'll always be a churlish, craven pig.”

Alan let go of Forrester's arm with a shove that almost unseated him. Forrester glared at him hard while Alan cut himself a slice of the cheese and poured a glass of Black Strap in lieu of port. He knew Forrester's type from civilian life, the bullying sort who would try to get even backhandedly, but would never face an enemy in a fair fight, and he enjoyed taunting him with a merry grin of physical superiority.

“How sadly is our aristocracy fallen, Carey, since the days of the Crusades,” Alan scoffed. “Or when they faced Caesar's legions painted blue with woad.”

An hour later, the master-at-arms and ship's corporals came about to see that all lights were extinguished for the night to lessen the mortal danger of fire, and they turned in. Alan took a moment while Forrester was forward in the heads to warn Carey to be on his guard in days ahead.

“He doesn't frighten me,” Carey said with a smirk. “What can he do to us? Three of us against him.”

“But he might get to you when we're not here.”

“No matter, you'll settle him for me,” Carey said, full of young confidence in his older mates to protect him. “But I'll make him pay for that slap.”

“Carey, I think
—
given the captain's mood
—
that you leave well enough alone for now.” Alan frowned. “Let it go, or you'll get us all in trouble, not just Forrester.”

Carey had only smirked at him once more, then skinned out of his clothes and sprang into his hammock to curl up and sleep, and Alan thought no more about it, eager to get to sleep himself for a few hours before his midnight-to-four tour of duty in the middle watch.

Perhaps it was something about blue woad that set Carey off, for at dawn quarters the next morning, all the midshipmen turned up on deck to await the rising of the sun and the possible renewal of the battle with the French fleet, whose riding lights had been visible all night on the south-east horizon, still headed out into the Atlantic under easy sail.

As the grayness of predawn began to lessen the darkness, and the binnacle, belfry, and taffrail lanterns began to lose their strength, some of the men began to titter into their hands and almost bite their tongues to keep from laughing out loud about something.

Must be a grand thing to get them going, Alan thought wearily after another night on deck with only three hours' sleep. There's not all that much to be amused at in this fleet.

“Silence on deck,” Lieutenant Railsford snapped, unusually out of sorts.

“Whatever is with the people this morning?” Treghues growled, stalking by the windward rail, unshaven as of yet and unfed.

“Don't know, sir,” Railsford replied.

“I'll prove to them they have nothing to laugh about after yesterday, by . . .” Treghues said, almost blaspheming himself.

I like him better when he has a mug of whatever that stuff is, Alan thought, planning to ask Mr. Dorne if the captain was under any medication; not that he really expected an answer, but he was intrigued anyway by the sudden change in behavior that Treghues evinced whenever he partook of it.

A man next to him on the gun deck began to laugh softly and Alan went to his side. “If you wish to be at the gratings in the forenoon, go ahead and laugh, why don't you?”

“Sorry, sor,” the man replied, much too brightly.

“Just what is so all-fired funny to you?” Alan queried, and the gunner jerked a finger in the general direction of the starboard gangway and screwed his mouth shut, trembling with the effort not to laugh.

Alan looked up at the gangway. Nothing funny up there; the yeoman of the sheets looked about as stupid as usual, the marines were mustered properly at the hammock nettings with their muskets, and the landsmen and brace-tenders all seemed normal enough. Lieutenant Peck was pacing slowly, as was his wont, with his burly sergeant in tow, just as every morning.

“Oh, my God!” Alan gaped at Forrester as he came aft from the fo'c's'le belfry. “Carey, you little shit, you've done for us, by God if you haven't! It had to have been Carey . . . Avery has more bloody sense!”

Forrester had had his countenance adorned during the night. There was blue paint on his face, large dots on each cheek, a false mustache a Hessian guardsman would be proud of, great arching false brows, a streak down the nose and two quarter-circles on the jowls to emphasize their roundness, with a final large blot on the slack chin.

“Jesus,” Coke, the bosun, commented as he spotted Forrester. “We're for it now, Mister Lewrie!”

“Amen to that,” Lewrie whispered back.

“When'ud ya find the time, sir?” Coke asked once he was past them.

“Me?” Alan yelped. “By God, it wasn't me . . . honest!”

“Merciful God!” A wail came from aft on the quarterdeck as Railsford spotted Forrester's phyz in the lightening gloom. “Mister Forrester, what is the meaning of this?”

“Mister Railsford?” Forrester snapped back, too sleepy to be wary, too surprised by Railsford tone and totally unknowing the nature of his sin.

“What sort of harlequin are you to appear caparisoned so?”

“Sir?” Forrester replied, on his guard now and feeling about his body to see if he was properly dressed after donning his clothes in the darkness of the midshipmen's mess with no time for a peek in a mirror.

“You . . . clown!” Treghues shouted in his best quarterdeck voice as soon as he spotted the miscreant. “How dare you turn out like that! Get below and wash that . . . that foolishness off at once, do you hear!”

“Sir?” Forrester begged, aware that he was in trouble for sure.

“And I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing the first lieutenant,” Treghues said.

“But, sir . . .”

“Now, idiot!” Railsford commanded.

The word “wash” alerted Forrester to the possible nature of his offense. As he saluted and spun away to disappear below decks, he felt of his waistcoat, his breeches, then his face as a last resort, and was appalled to bring his fingers away still sticky-damp with blue paint.

“Mister Lewrie, get your miserable carcass up here instantly!” Treghues bawled, and there was no denying the summons. With a bitter shrug he scampered aft to a quarter-deck ladder and faced his irate captain.

“Sir,” he said, doffing his cocked hat in salute.

“I know your brand of deviltry by now, Lewrie, and this time you shall pay for it in full measure,” Treghues said, spittle flying from his lips.

“I did not do it, sir.”

“Don't bother to lie to me, Lewrie!”

“On my honor, sir, I did not do it,” Alan persisted.

“Avery, Carey, come aft at once,” Railsford commanded.

“There's no need for that, Mister Railsford. I know who the biggest sinner in my own crew is, you can be assured of that.”

“Sir, Mister Lewrie had the middle watch all night.”

“Sir,” the other midshipmen said as they reported and saluted.

“On your honor, did you paint Forrester's face blue, Avery?” their lieutenant asked of him. Avery had seen Forrester's new appearance and had said nothing, but even the seriousness of the situation could not keep the smirk off his face as he swore up and down that he had not done the deed.