The French Admiral (13 page)

“There's nothing to laugh about,” Railsford barked, his own lips quivering at the edge of humor anyway, which did nothing to keep Avery from grinning even broader. “Carey, was it you?”

“Oh, this is a waste of time,” Treghues grumbled. “Mister Coke!”

“I did it, sir,” Carey said, pleased with his handiwork.

“You?” Treghues gaped.

“Aye, sir. Forrester cuffed me at supper last night.”

Forrester reappeared on deck, the sharp edges of his new makeup now smeared, but still bright blue.

“I told you to go below and wash!”

“It won't come off, sir,” Forrester admitted miserably. “It's paint, sir. I tried, sir, honest I did!”

“Did you strike Carey last night?” Railsford demanded.

“I . . .”

“Did you or did you not?”

“Lewrie stopped him from doing more,” Carey stuck in mischievously.

“Sir, they were . . .”

“Did you strike a fellow midshipman?” Railsford reiterated.

“Aye, sir, I did, but they . . .”

“Bully!” Railsford roared. “To think of a young man of your size, cuffing a little boy about. You disappoint me, Mister Forrester.”

“Vile wretch,” Treghues said, frowning heavily at his relative. “I had thought better of you until now, boy! And you, Carey, playing at shines as men such as us bleed and die yonder. All of you, shame on you for being such a spoiled pack of unfeeling prodigals. What did we do yesterday? Watched a battle being lost, good ships shot to pieces, good men shot to pieces, and you dare to cut such a caper and still call yourselves gentlemen-in-training as professional sea-officers. Well, you'll pay for it. Mister Coke, a dozen of your best for Forrester and Carey, and a half-dozen for Lewrie and Avery as well. Mastheading for Forrester and Carey until I remember to let them come down. And get that . . . stuff, off your face. Carry on!”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Once Treghues was gone below and the strokes had been given out, Railsford turned on them as well. “Goddamn you all for this childish . . . shit. I shall have the next fool flogged again, so help me!”

The sun was fully up after quarters were stood down, a day of calm seas and light winds. The sixth of September could have been a marvelous day to be sailing, were the circumstances different. The British fleet still sailed in easy column towards the south-east, pursuing the French, who were perhaps five or six miles off to leeward, drawn further and further away from the Chesapeake and the coast. But there was no question of battle being rejoined; too many ships had been roughly handled and needed urgent repair. The light winds were a blessing, allowing shattered topmasts to be struck so they could be fished or replaced with what few spare spars had been available from ships less hurt.

Admiral Drake's van ships had taken the worst of the pummeling; the
Intrepid
and
Shrewsbury
looked as though even an easy swell would roll the masts right out of them. But
Terrible
was the worst off, nearly in sinking condition, and her many wounded being parceled out to the less damaged ships for medical attention. The chain pumps clanked continually to stem the inrush of the sea from her bilge and lower decks.

The frigates still dashed back and forth on their ceaseless errands to scout dangerously close to the French and to keep an eye on their intentions, to carry spare timber and spars from well-endowed vessels to those most needy, and to pass messages too complicated for the meager signaling book.

Or messages too vitriolic to be shared, Alan thought grimly. He could imagine the choler with which Graves might be penning a despatch to the Admiralty about the debacle, dashing off irate questions and accusations to Admiral Hood; Drake might be pouring out pure bile about the near destruction of his ships in the van, thrown away without proper support by the rest of the fleet, especially Hood's rear division. Hood and Drake might be countering with invective about Graves's incredible decision to let the French form beyond the Middle Ground and the waste of a splendid opportunity that Providence did not give grudgingly to any admiral.

How long does it take to become an admiral, anyway, Alan wondered as the usual ship's day proceeded to spin out its ordered sameness. Even with a newly like me in charge, we'd have accomplished more yesterday than what this pack of fools did. And if I should ever make flag rank, will we still have a navy at this rate? We should have stood on into the bay and cut the Frogs' gizzards out of them! Even I know that.

The day before, the sight and sound of battle—in the early stages at least—had raised in him a martial ardor and pride in his uniform that he could scarcely credit as coming from such a churl as himself, and now it all seemed like a fever dream. What was the point in becoming an officer in such an inept Service? What sort of honor and credit would it bring him, and what sort of glory was there to reap with such an addled pack of bunglers?

Why are we still following that damned de Grasse like a cart horse on the way to the stable? Alan wondered. There was a French army in the Chesapeake now landed in Lynn-haven Bay, an army that would force Cornwallis to withdraw within his siege-works sooner or later. The fleet needed to go back and aid the army. Let de Grasse bottle them up in the bay. He would be denied entrance until after the hurricane season began, and had no force of note still with him other than his ships to threaten New York or Charlestown or any other port on the coast. A fleet, even a large one, had never succeeded in taking and holding a garrisoned and fortified location on its own with only marines to put ashore. By God, I don't believe one of these ridiculous jackanapes in charge over us has the slightest idea what to do with the fleet now. We'd do better with that damned Frog to lead us.

In the afternoon a flag hoist from the
London
summoned
Desperate
to attend her. Once near enough to hail,
London
's hard-pressed sailors had a chance to laugh at the sight of Forrester at the main masthead, still blue in the face as a Pict, for the paint indeed would not come off.

“A talisman, is your ancient warrior?” a lieutenant from
London
asked Treghues by way of greeting as he gained the quarterdeck with the usual canvas-bound packet of despatches under his arm.

“Your japery is out of place, Lieutenant,” Treghues said with icy harshness.

“Your pardon, Commander Treghues,” the lieutenant stammered, taken off guard and remembering his place in the scheme of things when facing a senior officer, even if the lieutenant was blessed to be the senior in the flagship of a major fleet. “Admiral Graves sends his most sincere respects and directs you to make the best of your way into the Chesapeake to deliver despatches to Lord Cornwallis and then return to the fleet.”

“And where shall the fleet be, I wonder?” Treghues asked of him. “Halfway to France? Still tagging along behind de Grasse?”

“I would not presume to know, sir. We shall still be at sea, certainly, to the east'rd of the capes.”

“Hmm,” Treghues sniffed in a lordly manner. “My deepest compliments to Admiral Graves, and I shall assure him the safe arrival of despatches or die in the attempt.”

“Very good, sir. I shall take my leave, then, and not detain you.”

“Good day, sir,” Treghues said. “Mister Railsford! Mister Monk! Stations to tack ship and lay her on the most direct course for the Chesapeake. Drive 'em, bosun. Crack on all the sail she can fly.”

Before the lieutenant from
London
had even regained his seat in the flagship's cutter,
Desperate
was boiling with activity as every reef was shaken out, as she wore about to pinch up close-hauled preparatory to tacking across the wind to a course opposite that of the fleet.

Even with a light north-east wind, she began to fly like a Cambridge coach with the wind broad on her starboard quarter, one of her fastest points of sail.

“Be in soundin's agin by around two bells o' the evenin' watch, sir,” Monk announced after they had taken several casts of the log. “We're nigh on nine knots. Will ya be wantin' ta enter the capes afore dawn, sir?”

“High tide should be making around then?”

“Just the start of the flood, sir. But we'll be off the entrance 'bout six bells. Be full dark, sir, and no moon ta speak of. Even so, I wonder if ya wants ta stand in under full sail er plain sail, what with no idea of what the Frogs left behind.”

“Might not be a bad idea to reduce sail, especially the royals and topgallants before sundown, sir.” Railsford stuck into the plans. “Even if the sun is going down behind the French watchers and we'll be out in the gloom, they'd shine in the last light.”

“You'd have us loiter off the channel 'til dawn and the turn of the low dawn tide, Mister Railsford,” Treghues countered, “and our orders brook no delay. Royals down in the second dogwatch, topgallants down after we fetch the coast, but we'll enter just as the tide is beginning to flow inward. We shall just have to chance any French warships.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“I'll have the ship at quarters, no lights showing, as we enter.”

Treghues looked about the deck once more, then went below to his quarters, bawling for his steward Judkin to attend him.

“Probably wants to look his best when he sees Symonds or Cornwallis,” David whispered once he was off the quarter-deck.

“He'd have to wear coronation robes to sugarcoat this disaster,” Lewrie observed. “What a shitten mess.”

“Oh, don't be such a Cassandra,” David sighed. “Once Graves gets his fleet in any sort of order, he'll turn about and come back into the bay, and where will de Grasse be then?”

“The only reason they harvested Cassandra's liver is because she was always right,” Lewrie said, grinning. “Keep that in mind, my lad.”

“I love you dearly, Alan, but there are times when you have absolutely no faith in our superiors,” David replied, withholding most of his vexation. “If you weren't so jaundiced in your outlook, you'd fare all the better. Think on this: there's a clutch of French transports in that bay, most likely without decent escorts, what with de Grasse and de Barras off ahead of Admiral Graves. We could snap one or two of them up tonight on our way in.”

“What if Symonds and his frigates have already done so?” Alan countered. “They might not have left much for us. At least, for once, I hope they haven't.”

“God, you're hopeless,” David grumped.

“But still alive and prospering,” Alan retorted.

The seas had begun to rise once they got in soundings. They reduced sail bit by bit as it got darker and darker, so that not even the faintest reflection of the setting sun would gleam from the upper yards. Just before entering the black channel near midnight, they even brailed up the main course to reduce the chance of fire if they were intercepted by a lurking French vessel. They then went to quarters.

Not a light showed above the gangways, and the slow-match in the tubs by each gun was shielded from sight and the gunports still were tightly closed so they would not give themselves away.

“Ships in the bay, sir!” The message was passed down from the topmast, from the lone lookout to the maintop to the quarterdeck staff. “Ridin' lights aburnin'!”

“Three men to each gun, excess crews stand easy amid-ships,” Mister Gwynn the gunner ordered softly. “Be ready to leap to it on either beam.”

“Lewrie?” A disembodied voice called from the quarter-deck. Lewrie recognized it as Railsford's.

“Aye, sir.”

“Do you go forward and remind the boy at the belfry to ring no bells but only turn the half-hour glass at the change of watch.” Railsford thought a moment as it neared midnight. “Then take charge of the fo'c's'le.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

He went forward, stumbling over men and gun tackle in the stygian darkness until he reached the belfry at the break of the fo'c's'le, where one of the ship's boys stood by the bell.

“You ring that damned thing and the first lieutenant'll have your head off,” Lewrie said. “Turn the watch glass, hour glass and all when the small glass runs out, but no bells.”

The other two were peering almost eyeball-close to see when the last of the sand ran out of the half-hour glass and did not answer, but only snuffled in anticipation. Alan went on up to the fo'c's'le and the carronade gun crews, making sure the slow-match for the pair of short-ranged “smashers” was safely out of sight on the gun deck first.

“Sitwell,” he whispered into the gloom.

“'Ere, Mister Lewrie.”

“Stand easy.”

“Aye, sir.”

Once on the foredeck, Alan could see much better in the night, and the assembly of anchored ships ahead of them were quickly evident by their riding lights in the taffrail lanterns. There seemed enough ships there for a couple of brigades of troops, perhaps enough supplies for a full season of campaigning. The French were in the Chesapeake to stay, certainly. And where they were, there would be Rebel units as well.