The French Admiral (9 page)

Somewhere out to leeward was a black shore, lost in the full darkness, and over the horizon from his vantage point. There was something nagging at him, but what he could not say; not fear this time, such as he had felt when faced with the prospect of action against another ship. His role in this would be that of a properly enthusiastic spectator, then a paid-off veteran soon after—and that was about as valuable in England as a dead rat. Worse. One could always eat the rat and sell the pelt.

It finally came to him that Cornwallis's army could do nothing to stop the French from entering the bay and landing their armament, and that was what was bothering him. Even with only fourteen ships to face up to 24 French and Spanish liners, the real point was to deny the French an anchorage anywhere in the bay; and if it cost a squadron to do that, it would be worth it, for the army would still be in one piece, and whatever the French and Rebels put together in the way of held units would have been smashed or decimated before even stepping ashore.

The air was cool, almost chilly compared to the tropical climate Alan was accustomed to. He involuntarily shivered, and hoped it was merely the damp night that made him do so.

CHAPTER 3

E
ven
if Alan Lewrie and his compatriot-in-crime David Avery had been blood relations to Commander Treghues, and in his best graces, they would have stood no chance for shore leave once
Desperate
anchored off New York. Alan thought New York a finer port for fun than Charleston, with its atmosphere seething with competing interests, the graft in military and naval stores, the spies and whispered confidences, and betrayals and the threat of the Rebel forces pending over all of it as if it were a besieged Italian city-state intent on survival in the time of the Borgias. It was a place that could turn a vicar into a pimp or fleshbroker and an honest man into a thief. It had most certainly turned many Loyalist women into grateful courtesans for the many handsome young men in uniform.

But Admiral Hood did not wish even to enter harbor, but anchored the fleet without the bar off Sandy Hook. However, the
Nymphe,
under Captain Ford, did cross the bar into the harbor, bearing despatches.

A flotilla of supply barges rowed out to them, but none of the many ships would be allowed out of discipline, pending a rapid assembly of the battle-worthy vessels of the North American Squadron, and an even more rapid return to the Chesapeake.

Boring, Alan decided, definitely boring. I've swung about out here before in the
Ariadne
and it was always deadly dull. And the way Treghues is acting lately, it's a wonder a boat full of clergy don't descend on us playing sad music, instead of us being allowed out of discipline.

“Bosun of the watch!” Railsford bellowed.

“Aye, aye, sir?”

“A boat for Mister Cheatham. Smartly now!”

Alan looked on hopefully, but it was Forrester who was entrusted with the duty of rowing their purser ashore. Cheatham shrugged eloquently at Alan by way of commiseration, but patted the large packet of letters he carried with him. So it was more than Alan's own letters to Lucy Beauman, Sir Onsley, who was now ensconced in London with the Board of Admiralty, and Lord and Lady Cantner. Cheatham was indeed posting a letter to his brother in London as well, regarding Alan's background.

The more Alan had thought of it since baring his soul to Cheatham in the bread room, the more he was certain that his father, Sir Hugo, had cheated him out of some sort of inheritance—nothing else made sense. Why else get him into Belinda's mutton and then entrap him with a ready-made pack of witnesses to force him to sign all those papers? He kicked himself for not asking for a copy to take with him.
Face it,
he thought, slapping his memory to life once more, you should have at least read them, instead of just scribbling your damn name to 'em.

He could console himself with the fantasy that somewhere in the near future Cheatham's brother would write back with proof positive of his father's perfidy, which he could dash into Treghues's leering face, at Captain Bevan, and at his master, Commodore Sir George Sinclair. They would fall all over themselves to take him into their good graces in atonement for their beastliness of the recent past. With their influence, and with the influence he had garnered from Lord Cantner and Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews, he would be well on his way to gaining that coveted commission, which would mollify Lucy's daddy and open all the doors to a peacetime future.

Interest was everything, if not second to outright jobbery and bribing his way to the top. Professional skill in ship-handling and seafaring were all right, but even the saltiest tarpaulin man could not advance without interest in those circles that abutted on the crusty older men at the Admiralty. Since he had so little interest as of yet, he was careful to curry to those he had.

May not make much difference anyway, he thought to himself. He must, according to the rules of thumb, be upwards of twenty, of two years' service as a midshipman or master's mate, and have been entered in ship's books for six years before he could even gain admission to an examination for his lieutenancy, and the war could end within a month after they beat de Grasse in the Chesapeake. Then where would he be in regards to Lucy Beauman?

Just the thought of her made him groan. She was so young, so delectably blonde, with startlingly blue-green eyes, the color of a shallow West Indies lagoon. She idolized him, and each time he saw her, she had advanced just a bit closer to the softly feminine ideal of the age. She loved him openly and frankly. She was also as rich as Croesus; or her father was, which was much the same thing. And the match was not totally out of the question—if he cleared his name, if he made something of himself that her father would let in the front door, before someone more suitable came along. Or before Lucy met someone she liked better. It was a long sail to Jamaica, and she might as well be on the other side of the world at the moment.

Did he love her as well? He thought about that as he penned her long, continuous sea-letters. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful, desirable, sweet, and unspoiled (in the biblical sense, at any rate). She was also his key to financial security after the war. No one else had ever fallen so head over heels in love with him (not anyone with that much chink). He had not had a major affair of the heart, having taken the usual route of paying silver for pleasure, or of taking advantage of house servants and country girls, just as any other young buck.

He felt something strong for her, but not knowing what love felt like as an emotion, he continually questioned it. He knew himself fairly well as a rake and a rogue, but this feeling for her was much greater than anything he had felt for a graceful neck, a well-turned ankle, or a firm bosom. Yet damned if he could put a label on it. He puffed up with it when he wrote to her in short bursts between duty and sleep, and her rare letters filled him with pleasure and the passion of jealousy if she even mentioned another male. Frankly, her letters were only part delight, were misspelled so badly he could barely credit them—and damned if he could discover what was so fascinating about what she had worn to church or how her hair was fixed for a carriage ride, or how difficult it was to find a maid who could iron properly. Her latest screed had been a damnation of the French Navy, who seemed intent on denying her the right shade of blue ribbons, and a fervent wish that Alan would skewer all the bothersome pests as soon as dammit and let her get on with sartorial splendor.

So what if she's feeble? he asked himself. Most women are, when you get right down to it. That's not what they were created for. If I want someone to talk to about something that matters, I'll toddle off to a coffee house or a club. He remembered the night in London, just before a descent into the Covent Garden district for a run at the whores, when two educated men had almost come to blows at Ozinda's over whether women could be educated at all!

If one got a fortune and a termagant mort came with it, then one could always keep a mistress. In the better circles, which Alan fervently hoped he could soon rejoin, it was a matter of course that the wife was for breeding children, and the mistress for pleasure. The thought of domestic drudgery, of having to stay in and listen to the empty pratings of a woman night after night made Alan and most of his past friends shiver with dread.

God help the poor who have no outlets, he thought. And God help me should I turn out to be one of them.

No matter what happened, he had his reserve money— over two thousand pounds in gold coins lifted from their last prize, the
Ephegenie.
It was part of a much larger trove that had been hidden in a large chest in that ship's late captain's necessary closet. That gold was now deep within his sea-chest, wrapped up in a discarded shirt so worn, mended, stained, and daubed with tar that no one with any taste whatsoever would even look at it, much less borrow it or disturb it.

Ironically, he could not make much use of it, since to dig down to it would reveal its presence, and a midshipman's chest—even a locked one—was no safe place for anything. There were times that Alan regretted taking the money, and not settling for the roughly 125 pounds he would have received as a share out of the prize-money once the main mass of coins—nearly 80,000 pounds—had been discovered. Admittedly those regrets were rare, but the thought had crossed his mind. Instead, he had to depend on the 100 guineas his father sent, and how long that arrangement would last, he had no idea, or any great hopes for in future.

His reveries were interrupted by seven bells chiming from the fo'c's'le belfry; eleven thirty in the forenoon watch. Almost immediately the bosun's pipes sang and the order was bellowed to “clear decks and up spirits.” The hands lashed down their labors and queued up for their rum ration. Soon they would be allowed to go below to their dinner, while Alan would have to wait, his stomach already in full cry for sustenance. There was fresh food coming offshore, but he would not share in it. There would be small beer and the last of the rum to savor for even the meanest hand, but he would not taste that fiery anodyne to the misery of a seagoing life.

“Lucky Forrester,” Avery said, standing by the rum cask with the purser's assistant as the rum was doled out.

“He wouldn't know what to do with time ashore,” Alan said.

“Might take two guineas to find a girl that'd let him put the leg over her.”

“And she'd have to be beef to the heel, at that,” Alan added.

“This is grievous to me,” Avery said, looking at the rum.

“No grog fer ye today, sir?” the purser's assistant asked, waving a measure about toward them, knowing full well the captain's instructions and delighting in having power over the midshipmen in this regard.

“No, thank you,” Avery said stiffly. “Carry on.”

He and Alan made their way aft to the quarterdeck, unable to bear the sight of the hands smacking and savoring their liquor.

“Lots of activity,” Alan said, indicating the fleet about them. “Damme, look there. Is that a load of lumber going into
Terrible?
”

“Lots of spare rope, too,” Avery said, picking up an unused brass telescope. “I swear her masts look sprung. See what you think.”

Alan took the glass and aimed it at
Terrible.
The third-rate 74 did indeed appear badly worn, her masts slanted from the more usual slight forward rake. Except for closing with
Barfleur
a couple of times or sailing close to another, larger frigate,
Desperate
had been far out to windward from the fleet for the most part of their passage, unable to see much as to the condition of their fleet.

“Come to think on it, David, half of them appear they've just come through a major storm. There's not a ship present that looks well set up.”

“Then I sincerely pray the French look just as bad,” David said, taking the glass back. “We seem more due a refit than a battle.”

“We're more at sea than the French, usually—their big ships at least.” Alan was repeating common knowledge. “But what's this delay in aid of? I should have expected this Admiral Graves to come boiling without the bar at once and get us on our way. God knows what the French are up to while we stew here. Any idea who he is anyway?”

“Lord North's cousin, I am told,” David said sourly.

“Is he, God save us!” Alan shuddered.

“Who knows, he may actually be good,” David said, placing the telescope back in the rack by the binnacle. “You know how people feel back home. They wouldn't do a damned thing for the Hanover Crown or the government unless they're damned near bribed by promises of graft and jobbery. I expect they considered themselves lucky to get anyone at all, the way all the so-called fighting admirals have retired to their estates to sit this war out. It's not popular in the first place, even if the government was, which it's not.”

“This factionalism will do for us one of these days,” Alan remarked.

“We were lucky to get Hood and Rodney together with one fleet for a while. I'd feel better with Rodney back out here, but . . .”

“Once he clears all his creditors, perhaps he shall come.”

“How many ships did Mister Railsford say de Barras had up in Newport?” David asked suddenly.

“Eight sail of the line, I think,” Alan answered. “Why?”

“What if he and de Grasse combine in the Chesapeake?”

“Then we smash both of them together,” Alan said firmly.

“Perhaps Graves cannot leave New York uncovered. We might have wasted our time coming to him for assistance. God, I wish we were both post-captains right now,” David said, with some heat. “This not knowing anything is driving me to distraction.”

“Don't believe that the post-captains know much more than we do now,” Alan cautioned. “All we have to do is fight. They'll point us at the foe like a gun, and all we have to do is discharge at the right time. We shall either do something glorious, or look like a complete pack of fools—so what is there to worry about?”

“God, you are an unaware bastard,” David said, grinning and shaking his head in wonder at his friend's attitude.

“I dare say,” someone drawled, and they spun about to see if the captain had caught them at their speculations. David pointed to the open skylight over the captain's quarters.