The French Admiral (28 page)

The town was just behind them, close enough to retire to from the ramparts through the communications trenches and to rest there in the abandoned buildings or homes that had not been commandeered for use already.

“Your guns shall go in here,” the army officer instructed, showing Alan two vacant gunports in the east wall. There the wall was mostly straight, with an extended crenellation to their left. The area of the rampart around the gunports had been built up with fascines and gabions, and wooden ramps were already in place so the guns could rest or recoil smoothly. “Nice work you did, getting these naval pieces converted for field use.”

“Thank you, sir. What do we do here, though?”

“Cover the river,” the officer shrugged.

“I can't reach the French ships from here with a ball, even at maximum elevation, sir. Unless they come farther up . . .”

“Then you can fire to your heart's content.”

“Well, I was thinking that we would be more use further west or on the north face, sir. A long nine could drop shot into that big battery the French are building. Or cover the Star Redoubt.”

“No point in that. The Star Redoubt is being abandoned as well. And we have mortars of our own to deal with that battery.”

“With a long nine, sir, I could reach Gloucester Point as well. With so much artillery being put in on this side, it would seem reasonable to expect that we could use our more accurate pieces to provide a counterfire. On solid land, naval gunners can be devilishly accurate.”

“And they could teach their grannies to suck eggs.” The officer frowned. “We have six-pounders and infantry redans to cover the road from the Star Redoubt, and guns enough to cover the river above the town and strike that battery they're building. So why don't you just get your guns into position and leave the planning to your betters, eh? There's a good lad. More experienced men than you have already made allowance for any contingency, so why not just obey orders?”

Burgess and Governour have the right of it, Alan thought sourly as his gunners began to wheel their charges into the emplacements. Our regular army is a pack of idiots. I don't think they've had an original idea since Cromwell died. We ain't fighting on the French border with Marlborough. We're surrounded and short of powder already.

Still, once in place, Alan was relieved to find that the troops who supported him were mostly marines who could be trusted, so he would not have to share the same rarefied air as the army.

It is a truism that warfare consists mostly of marching off to the possible site of battle, and being thoroughly miserable in the process. And once there, it consists of waiting for that battle to begin and, depending on the climate, the availability of amusements, and the amount of worrying one does while waiting, a pretty miserable process as well. Each morning they rose early and stood to their guns, much as at dawn quarters. Each morning the sea was empty beyond the capes and only the French ships could be seen from the town bluffs or the top of the ramparts; the ones beyond the shoals at the mouth of the York, or the ships far out in the bay blockading the entrances. Inland, they could watch the enemy march into positions; positions in the outer defense line that they had abandoned days before and were now redug and improved to their own detriment, and the joy of their foes.

September ended, and Graves did not come. The first days of October passed by in enforced ennui, with the town now thoroughly invested by both French and Rebel troops. More and more artillery wheeled into position, whole parks of guns. Not just light field pieces, but heavy siege guns and howitzers and mortars that could throw fizzing shells of up to sixteen inches that would burst with great thunderclaps, should they ever cut loose with them.

The American Rebels made a brave show from the ramparts, marching in what seemed very good order, their muskets slung precisely and their step quick and lively, their striped Rebel banner with the starry blue canton and their regimental flags flying. The drums rolled and the fifes whistled thinly, like a man sucking air through his teeth; mostly they played
Yankee Doodle,
which was about the most nonsensical song Lewrie had ever seen written down, even dumber than most, such as
Derry Down
or
When the World Turned Upside Down.
The French troops wore white with rose, purple, green, or black facings. The Rebels looked natty in dark blue and buff with white breeches and various regimental trim.

The Rebels and French bands serenaded them as their troops dug and countermarched and drilled, or toiled with improving artillery positions, and the marines paraded before the ramparts as well, playing
Heart of Oak
and
Rule, Britannia,
until Alan was sick of hearing them.

At night, the land across the ravine of Yorktown Creek, the woods and the fields were swarming with small squad fires in a glittering arc from the York River down to below Moore's House, out of reach of rifle fire or small arms. Strangely, both sides held their fire, even though the artillery could have put the fear of God and British gunnery up the Rebels and their allies. There was a rumor making the rounds that those insane Rebels had gotten up on their own ramparts of a freshly dug parallel and performed the manual of arms in Prussian style, and it was such a good show that not a shot had been fired, though their Colonel Alexander Hamilton could have been handed his arse on a plate for forcing his troops to do such a stunt. And through it all, Graves and Hood and General Clinton and his four thousand reinforcements were also only a rumor, for they did not come. The skies clouded up and rained occasionally, and the nights were becoming chillier, the days less warm—more like home back in England in late summer, when the apples were ripe for the plucking, ruddy with the first frost.

The forage situation for the thousands of horses was getting desperate, and with too many animals in the fortifications providing a sanitary problem, many were turned out to crop the late summer grass on their own, between the lines. They would not be called upon to haul guns or wagons, not for weeks to come, it looked like, and they were already half-famished for want of good corn or grain. Come to think of it, so were the troops, and their needs came before horses and mules.

Making the situation even worse when it came to rations, there were thousands of black faces in the fortifications; slaves from the many plantings in the Chesapeake and the Tidewater region who had been dragged off as moveable property confiscated for the Crown, or had escaped from their masters and were hoping for eventual freedom from their Rebel owners if the British were successful in withstanding the siege. Their labor was handy to dig and improve the defenses or serve as bearers from the warehouses and armories to the guns.

Alan ended up with half a dozen to help tail on the tackles to run out his guns and to keep a supply of shot and cartridges coming from his magazines. A more miserable lot he had never seen in his life; the blacks in the Indies were freemen, at least the ones he had seen around the ports. There were many who had signed aboard King's ships after their European crews had succumbed to the many fevers, and they were rated as landsmen or ordinary seamen, paid the same wages as an English sailor. Some of the younger ones even made damn good topmen and able seamen after a few years. But this lot were as thin as wild dogs, clothed tag-ragand-bobtail, poorer than even the worst-off gin drinkers in some London stew. They responded to the cheerful friendliness of the British sailors with caution and cringed like whipped pups if anyone even looked sharp in their direction; Alan thought that had a lot to do with the lash marks on their backs that their thin clothes could not cover. When he allowed them a scrap of sailcloth to make a snug lean-to near the battery, their gratitude was so humble and heartfelt that he was almost repulsed by their suddenly adoring neediness.

For his part, Alan had the use of a bedroom in a small house within one hundred yards of his battery on the rampart, shared with an officer with Symonds's marines from the
Charon;
the house itself full of officers sleeping three to a bed, on the floors and furniture, even bedding down on top of, and under, the dining table. They were all young and junior and had access to lots of spirits and personal stores they shared together for their informal mess. Alan could return to a dry bed, Cony's ministrations with his uniform and kit, a glass of hock, rhenish, red wine, brandy, corn whiskey, or rum toddy. There was cider, some captured local beer, and plenty of food and condiments to make it palatable as long as their caches held out. There was a privy in which he could take his ease (which was rapidly filling up, though, with so many people using it). There was an outhouse with a large wooden tub where Lewrie could take an occasional bath in warm water when the stewards and orderlies were not using it to wash clothes.

So he waited like the others, rising for the rare alarums and diversions as a battery would fire on the enemy digging a parallel down south-east, or light off a rocket at night, sure that a party of infiltrators had appeared, but for a desperate war, it was a chore to even keep interested in it most of the time.

WHEEE-BLAM!

Alan jerked involuntarily in his sleep, savoring the most lifelike dream of fondling and un-dressing Lucy Beauman. Her father was at the door, crying out for his daughter's virginity and slamming his fists on the door. WHEEE-BULAMM!

“Sufferin' Christ!” his bedmate said, rolling off the high mattress and taking refuge under the bed frame with the chamber pot. The other officer who shared their bed had already gone out the window. “Lewrie!”

“Umm?” Alan mazed sleepily. It had been so warm and snug, bundled in between the other officers, each wrapped in a good blanket with a quilt spread over all three of them. WHEEEE-BUBLAMMM!!

This made the entire house shudder, and Alan came awake in the afterglow of the explosion of a large-caliber mortar shell that felt as though it had struck in the next room.

“What the hell is it?” Alan said testily. He was never at his best just awakened, and the dream had been
so
damned good.

“Well, it sounds mighty like the end of the world,” his bunkmate said from below him. WHEE-BLAM! A strike farther off, but still close enough to blow in the drapes and stir the air in the room.

“Who opened the fucking window?” Alan said. “It's cold in here.”

“Gad, you're a cool 'un,” the marine told him.

“Holy shit on a biscuit,” Alan blurted, suddenly realising what was happening. “Where are you?”

“Down here,” came the muffled reply.

Alan tried to disentangle himself from his bedclothes as the WHEE of another descending shell could be heard in the distance, rapidly drawing closer with a menacing wail. He finally gave it up and rolled out of bed like a human caterpillar and thumped heavily to the floor to wriggle under the bed as well, just as there was another apocalyptic BLAM!

The house shuddered once more, and the sound of running feet was making the floor bounce like a drumhead. Voices shouted what sounded like arrant nonsense in a cacophony of questions, statements, yells of terror, and demands for silence and order. Trumpets brayed in the camp, the Highlanders got their bagpipes working and filled the air with the hideous screech of war marches, and drummer boys beat loud but shaky rolls to call the troops to arms, as if they had not considered a shelling enough incentive to head for the ramparts and the guns.

“Mister Lewrie, sir?” Cony called, bursting into the room. There was another shriek in the air as one more shell descended, and Cony found room under the bed for himself as well. “You alright, sir?”

“Bloody grand, Cony,” Alan muttered as the shell struck close enough to raise the dirt and dust puppies around them. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

He dressed in the dark, Cony passing him waistcoat, shoes, neckcloth, coat, and hat, one item at a time, like a conjurer who knew exactly where the chosen card was all the time. His pistols were shoved into his hands, and while he was stuffing them into his breeches pockets, Cony was hanging his dirk on the frog of his waistband.

“Yer hat, Mister Lewrie,” Cony said in the darkness.

“Seen my orderly?” the marine officer asked.

“No, sir, I ain't,” Cony replied, flinging open the door to the dining room and parlor. “They's the flask in yer coattail pocket, sir, an' I'll see to yer breakfast later, if ya don't mind, Mister Lewrie.”

“Not at all.” Alan headed out into the darkness. Well, it was not entire darkness. There were enough fires burning to light up the encampment where a fused shell from a high-angle piece such as a mortar or howitzer had set fire to the hay stands for the remaining animals, or shattered a house and set it alight.

“God!” Alan gaped at the night sky. There was some low cloud that night turning pale gray on the bottom from the fires already set and from the bright bursts of flame of the guns in the artillery parks and redoubts that had finally begun the bombardment of Yorktown. Hot amber meteors soared up from the countryside and howled across the sky under those clouds to arc down and burst with horrendous roars and great stinking clouds of expended gunpowder. It was an awful sight, of such complete and stunning novelty that he stopped short and just stared for the longest time. Solid shot could almost be seen as quick black streaks that crossed the eye before they could be recognized and followed. Heated shot moaned in all colors, depending on the bravery of the gunners who had rolled it down their muzzles; either blue-hot or yellow-amber, like a half-made horseshoe on a forge, but sometimes a dull red from those careful souls who did not want to deform the shot in the barrels or set the propellant charges off with the heat of the projectiles before the crews could stand back for safety.