The French Admiral (40 page)

His relief was short, however, for Governour Chiswick turned just as suddenly and stalked back toward him, and it was all Alan could do to stand his ground without fleeing into the woods.

“You're a know-it-all Captain Sharp, Lewrie,” Governour said in a rasp, not a sword's length away from him. “Damn your blood, sir. And damn you for being right. My apologies for rowing at you.”

A hand was extended, from which Alan almost flinched until he realized it didn't hold a weapon. They shook hands.

“Sorry I lost my temper as well, Governour,” Alan said warmly, his legs almost turning to jelly with surprise.

“Well, until dusk, there's nothing to do but do what soldiers do best,” Governour said, smiling as much as he could while still grinding his teeth. “Wait. Take positions in the woods by our preparations and hope for the best.”

“Have everything ready for a quick getaway,” Alan added.

“If they come, Alan, we shall have no chance of retreat, and damned little of surrender, either, you know?” Governour softened. “I believe we can prevail, but until we see how many troops come, we won't know. I wish to God I could have gotten Burgess away, for my family's sake. The rest of our regiment, what's left of it, is going into Rebel hands this day. I have to save what I can. They're my neighbors, my friends, they trust me . . . oh, damme for a weak, puling . . .”

“I have a crew to worry about as well, Governour, men from my own ship,” Alan told him. “They're depending on me, too.”

“You understand. Good,” Governour said. “Good lad.”

Maybe not as well as you'd like, Alan thought. I'd like to get the hell out of here with a whole skin, and damn the ones who run too slow. But you can't say that aloud, can you, can't even think it, but have to go all noble and talk of Duty and the King and Honor and be the last arse-hole into the boat. God help me, but He
must
know I'm such a canting hypocrite! If you're dead-serious in what you say, Governour, then you're a hell of a lot better than I'll ever be.

They finished loading the boats and drew them out nearly fifty yards off the mouth of the creek, where there was water deep enough to float them. The North Carolina Volunteers filtered off into the woods with their rifles and cartridge pouches to stand guard, and Alan put his own men on watch as well, drilling them once more on loading and firing the Ferguson rifle, just in case. They ate a late dinner of cold boiled meat and dry cornbread, while over by Yorktown, the shattered remnants of a once-proud army marched into captivity with their flags cased, dressed in the last finery the quartermasters had issued, instead of letting it be captured still in the crates. They marched drunk and surly, as though by infusions of rum and hot sneers they could belittle the victors. By battalion and regiments, they tramped through a gauntlet of Rebel and French troops to lay down their colors and honor-draped drums, pile their muskets and accoutrements, and march away naked and helpless. Lord Cornwallis pleaded illness and sent his second-in-command to represent him. That officer surrendered his sword to Washington's second-in-command, while a British band of fifers played gay music to lessen the shame.

Alan thought of going back up to the house and giving the Hayley sisters some guineas for what they had taken, but after their deception he could not find the generosity in heart to do so, and was sure that if he did go up to the house, he would most likely be tempted to torch the damned place. Had they just sat there, we'd be away with no one hurt by dusk, but they could not leave well enough alone, and that damned imp, he thought furiously, probably thinks he's a fucking hero!

As the afternoon drew on, he began to feel a lot calmer. There was no sign of the enemy, no movement from any of the ships out in the river to put a landing party ashore or come closer for a peek. He started to think they could get away scot-free after all.

But then, a little after three, an outlying picket who had been watching the ford onto the neck came drifting back from tree to tree to carry word that there was an enemy force on the Gloucester road.

“How many men?” Governour asked his scout as they held a quick conference in the trees at the eastern end of the tobacco fields near the muddy lane.

“'Bout a dozen hoss, Governour,” the thatch-haired private named Hatmaker told him. “Dragoons, some mounted officers. Mebbe forty, fifty foot ahind 'em, all Frenchies, look like. Blue an' yeller, an bearskin shakoes, dressed putty much like the troopers.”

“Lauzun's Legion.” Governour nodded. “Odd they sent so few. No one behind them?”

“I waited 'til they wuz past couple minutes afore I cut across country, Governour. Didn't see nobody else.”

“We may have a chance after all,” Governour smiled wolfishly. “We shall stand and fight. Mark you this, though. We're going to have to kill every last mother-son of them, or word gets out and we'll never have a chance to escape. Mollow, take six riflemen with Mister Lewrie to stiffen his defenses up by the creek. Lewrie, you must cover everything north of the road and around the boats and the creek. Burge, you and Knevet take twelve men and guard behind the
chevaux-de-frise
in the woods a little north of the road and put some snipers along the lane. Don't expose yourself until they charge right on top of you.”

“Right, Brother,” Burgess said, a trifle breathless.

“I'll make my demonstration south of the road, and draw them onto me. I'll hold my ground 'til over-run, but I think I can bleed 'em, and force 'em to seek a flank to turn, on my right, along the road and north of it,” Governour said, drawing in the dirt with the tip of his sword-bayonet. “Burgess, you'll be my first surprise for them. Lewrie, you'll be my last.”

“Aye?” he replied, feeling a trifle dubious a surprise.

“Hold your log redan up there until they pass you, and then fall on
their
flank. Do it from ambush, don't risk your sailors in the open. They're not used to our practice. Hold your ground and don't be drawn unless I send a runner to tell you to advance south toward the road. If you don't hear from me direct, hold your ground and keep the boats safe.”

“Let 'em get stuck into you and then kick 'em up the arse?” he said through dry lips. “I can do that.”

“Don't fire too soon, or they get away. And if there are more of them behind this bunch, they may come your way to flank us even wider. Trust Mollow, he's a veteran at this. If I break, I'll fall back on you. Wait for us as long as you can, then get your people out of it.”

“Aye, Governour,” Alan agreed.

“In any case, wait no more than ten minutes after we have opened fire, and it should be over one way or another,” Governour concluded.

“The hell with that,” Alan told him, shaky but determined. “We're in this together. If we fall back on the boats, we'll just be grand targets splashing through the shallows. Might as well stand or fall on land, dammit to hell.”

“Well said, sailor,” Governour said, taking his hand and giving him a farewell shake. “Now let's take our positions before they see us.”

Alan did not know what to expect once he got back to his hastily made positions up by the creek. Would the enemy come with drums and fifes like the Rebels that had marched into the parallels facing the Yorktown entrenchments, or would they come filtering through the woods like so many painted savages? He could see no sign of them as yet, and was dying of curiosity. He told his men they would have to stand their ground, just like guarding their bulwarks against boarders, gave them a short pep talk, which he did not much believe even as he said it, and knelt down by Mollow and another rifleman to wait out of sight.

About fifteen minutes later, a lone horseman came out of the trees on the far side of the tobacco fields on the road, about four hundred yards away, a fine figure in horizon blue and yellow on a splendid mount. He sat and studied the ground before him for a long moment, before three other riders cantered up to hold a short conference with him. Even at that distance, Alan could see that two were also Lauzun's Legion officers in their hussar shakoes, and the third wore blue and white with a tricorne.

The riders stiffened in their saddles and pointed across the brown fields of neglected tobacco plants as Governour's men stepped out of cover south of Alan's vantage.

“Are they deranged to expose themselves like that?” Alan asked.

“Dem'stration,” the private next to him said, spitting a dollop of tobacco juice on the rotting log in front of him and wiping his lips. “Same's bait, they is. Hey, here's yer Frogs.”

A body of cavalry appeared on the road, cantered past the officers, and formed a single line-abreast on either side of the muddy road, while one officer joined them. A second Legion officer walked his mount over to take position with a company of infantry that appeared behind the cavalry, these men in horizon blue tunics with yellow facings, white breeches and gaiters, and tall bearskin shakoes. They were four abreast as they wheeled south, halted once in the middle of the tobacco field, faced east and formed two ranks facing the North Carolina riflemen. To their flank, the cavalrymen drew their heavy sabers and flourished them in the late afternoon sun with appallingly good precision.

“Heh, Governour's a puttin' on a show fer 'em.” The private chuckled.

“Hatmaker, get yer fuckin' haid down,” Mollow told him.

Governour had twelve men in a single rank, impossible odds even if they were riflemen, perhaps two hundred yards away from the waiting enemy ranks. As Alan watched, they went through a drill that Alan did not think such informal troops knew, while Governour stood to one end and called orders that wafted to his ears.

“Poise firelocks!”

“Like musket men.” Alan understood.

“Half cock firelocks! Handle cartridge!” Governour called, while a corporal beat the time with what seemed a half spontoon. “Prime pans!”

“They'll think they're reg'lars,” Mollow snickered. “Fooled more'n a few that way. Stupid bastards.”

“Shut pans! Charge with cartridge!”

The dozen men were pretending at that long range to load from the muzzle with cartridge, though their rifles were already loaded and ready to fire. At the word of command, they seemed to ply rammers, which were really their cleaning rods, and tamp down cartouches, resuming the rammers and coming to attention once more at the command “shoulder firelocks,” ordering arms and affixing bayonets, the long sword-bayonets which should have given the game away. But the foe still stood and watched as though mesmerized.

“Why don't they just charge them?” Alan whispered.

“Honor,”
Mollow spat, as though it was a dirty word.

Only when they had finished their evolutions did the senior Legion officer ride out from his lines to converse with Governour. They saluted each other punctiliously, their words unheard from a distance but obviously couched in tortured and convoluted syntax of two gentlemen expressing the highest respect and admiration for each other, no matter what they really thought of each other. The Frog was removing his shako and bowing from the waist, making a beckoning gesture as though he were granting permission to fire first to Governour, and Governour gave his own back, removing his wide-brimmed campaign hat and sweeping it across his chest, making a gesture to the waiting French troops in turn.

The Frenchman finally spurred his horse about and rode back to his men. He called out once more in a loud voice, and Alan could understand the last offer to surrender peaceably, which Governour spurned.

“Poise firelocks!” Governour called, unshouldering his own piece. “Take aim!”

The French troops at a word of command began to advance slowly, their muskets held out before them with the butts by their thighs and the muzzles up, with the bayonets glinting sharp silver. They were getting into decent musket range, for by firing at one hundred yards one could fire at the moon and achieve just as much good.

“Fire!” Governour shouted, bringing his arm down in an arc.

The rifles cracked, and ten men in the front rank of the French troops were punched backwards into their fellows by the weight of .65 caliber balls. Their own volley came a moment later as they halted and brought their weapons up to fire, but Alan was delighted to see that the Volunteers had knelt down to reload, no longer playing the stiff regular musketeer, and the volley mostly went over their heads.

The cavalry, though, as though spurred into motion by the first noise of battle, lurched forward, their mounts hunkering their hindquarters down and the sabers sweeping off the shoulders to point at the Volunteers, blades held upside down and point slightly down at the charge.

Governour gave the infantry one more volley from a kneeling position, and then faded away back into the pines behind the zigzag fences as the spent powder smoke from his firing formed almost a solid wall through which his men went invisible. But the cavalry was almost upon them, out to one side and swinging in to jump those fences. The cavalrymen whooped and screamed, eager to put sword to the foe and show the dazed infantry who was the better fighter. In a torrent of Gaelic, Polish, German, or French, they came on like a tidal wave.