The French Admiral (10 page)

“Oh, damme,” Alan whispered.

“I shall be on deck directly, and I trust I shall see two midshipmen doing something more profitable with their time than second-guessing their betters!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” David called back as they made their escape to the bows, far away from that disembodied voice before Treghues made good on his threat.

“Now will you look at that!” Alan exclaimed. “Mister Avery, will you join me on the foredeck? Look at the state of that carronade slide. Not enough grease to let it run freely, I swear!”

“Thank you,” David whispered. “I was about to remark on the forebraces, and there's nothing wrong with them.”

“Summat amiss, sirs?” Tulley, the new gunner's mate, asked them as he ascended to the bow-chase guns to join them. He was a recent replacement for poor Mister Robinson, who had been shot in the knee and discharged a cripple from his position a bare three weeks before, in their fight with the Continental Navy brig-of-war
Liberty.
Tulley was too new in his berth and warrant to feel safe even with midshipmen, especially in a ship run by a seeming lunatic, and was as nervous as a cat to be found lacking for the slightest excuse.

That was the main reason he did not treat the midshipmen with the usual patient disdain that was the customary usage of human existence, and the Fleet. He was also big, bluff, and hearty, a plug of oak with flaming ginger hair and a permanently sun-baked complexion. He had, so far, appeared no brighter than he had a right to be.

“Might have a word with the quarter-gunner about this slide,” Alan said. “The captain said he would be on deck directly.”

“Aye, thankee, Mister Lewrie,” Tulley quailed. “Did he, by God? Mister Sitwell? Call yerself a quarter-gunner an' roon one a my guns fer the lack o' some tallow?”

“Me, Mister Tulley?” the quarter-gunner barked, deeply offended.

As Alan and David waited for their own meal to begin, drab as it promised to be, they could delight in hearing Tulley berate the offending Sitwell, hear Sitwell roar for Hogan the carronade gun captain and pass on the grief. By the time Treghues appeared on deck, he was drawn to the ado and paid no attention to them as they betook themselves below out of danger.

“That is one thing I absolutely love about the Navy sometimes, David,” Alan said as they sat down to their dinner. “You can stir up such a shitten storm for other people over the slightest trifles.”

It was later, during loading of stores scared up by Cheatham from the warehouses, that the wind shifted into the east and began to blow dead foul for any of Admiral Graves's ships to work their way down harbor and cross the bar to seaward.

They spent three more days swinging at their anchors, gazing at the shore with fond regard, and wondering what was to occur before the wind at last veered favorable and the signal to weigh broke out on the flagship, Admiral Graves's ninety-gun second-rate,
London.

Treghues had gleaned a little information from other captains, and had passed it on down the chain of command, and by the time it had reached the midshipmen's mess, it was frankly disturbing.

The frigate
Richmond
had come in from the Chesapeake on the 29th with the information that so far no French ships were anywhere near the bay.

De Barras in Newport had sailed—no one knew where, but it did not take an educated guess to discern the final destination. De Barras had transports with him, and the French had nearly five thousand troops around Newport, with heavy siege artillery. Should he combine with de Grasse, that would make up to a possible 22 French ships to face theirs.

And they would only be nineteen ships of worth. The North American Squadron could contribute no more than five, since the
Robust
was in the careenage undergoing repair, and the
Prudent
was lacking spars and masts enough to sail.

Admiral Graves brought out
London, Bedford, Royal Oak, America,
and
Europe—
the
Europe
so in need of careenage and repair herself that the fifty-gun fourth-rate
Adamant
also joined the fleet to take
Europe
's place if she had to drop out. That would leave a dangerously weak gap in the line if
Adamant
faced a line-of-battle ship, for she was more suited to commanding a light cruising flotilla than fighting a major battle in the line. She was an oversized cruiser, not meant for heavy punishment.

“Now what's he signaling,” Treghues snapped, pacing the deck in a fit of nervous energy. “Mister Carey?”

“Um . . .” Carey fumbled with his slim signals book and a telescope nearly as tall as he was. “Can't quite make it out, sir. The flags are blowing away from us.”

“That is what the repeating frigate is for, young sir,” Treghues reminded him sternly. “Now what is the signal?”

“‘Engage the enemy more closely,' sir?”

“Does that make sense even to you?” Treghues replied. “Where is the enemy in the first place?”

“Uh, no, sir.” Carey blushed, turning red with embarrassment.

“Those two flags together, in Admiral Rodney's signals book, are ‘Engage the enemy more closely,'” Railsford prompted from the sidelines, “but in Admiral Graves's system, they mean . . .”

Carey tumbled to his mistake and almost dropped the telescope in his haste to fetch out the proper sheet of signals. “‘Make easy sail,' sir,” he said, with an audible gasp of relief.

“Now this one,” Treghues said, as a new hoist went up their flagship's yards. “You, Lewrie.”

“‘For
Solebay,
' sir, ‘Captain Everitt.'” Alan was reading even before the frigate named in the signal hoisted a reply. Immediately a second hoist was made on the
London.
“‘Proceed ahead to leeward,' sir.”

“Is that what you think, Mister Forrester?” Treghues asked.

“Um . . . I
believe
that is correct, sir,” Forrester replied, most unsure of himself, but not wishing to grant Lewrie any competence.

“Hah . . . hmm,” Treghues said, slapping his hands into the small of his back and stalking off toward the starboard gangways.

“Wish to God we were using our own signal book and not Admiral Graves's version,” Railsford muttered, taking off his hat to smooth back his hair. “We have the more ships, so it would only be fair. This is confusing in the extreme.”

“Only natural,” Alan whispered to Avery, “the Navy's spent the last two years confusing the devil out of me!”

“There's another hoist!” Treghues cried, coming back aft in a rush. “Last miscreant to read it gets to kiss the gunner's daughter.”

“‘To
Barfleur,
' sir,” Alan said quickly as soon as he saw the single flag.
“‘
Send boats.
'”

All of them stumbled out almost at once in their haste to avoid a caning. A second flag had appeared.

A third, explanatory hoist went up
London
's yards. Alan read it as number 48, which would be . . . “I am sinking”? Couldn't be, he thought. But maybe it could be. No, maybe it's 98. That's . . . “Take on excess supplies.”

“‘Take on excess supplies,' sir!” Alan was beaming, glad to be the first to answer, but barely ahead of Avery, who gave the same answer barely ahead of Carey, who did the same barely before Forrester began to say something else and ended up not saying anything at all, merely flapping his lips like a boar at a slop trough.

Treghues had promised a caning, and he could not play favorites in public. Forrester got the gentle attention of the bosun's strong arm for a half-dozen with a stiffened rope “starter,” after which Treghues decided that signals lessons were over for the day. Forrester looked absolutely betrayed and aggrieved, which pleased them all to no end, and he grumbled that he would get his own back.

For all the urgency with which they had finally departed New York, the cruise down the coast of America was remarkably leisureable. The line of major warships made no more than four or five knots during the day, taking in sail during the night to crawl even slower, while the frigates dashed ahead and dashed back to report what little they saw, stirring about like cockroaches scuttling around a parade of snails.

The time passed as it always did in the Fleet; hands up to scrub decks, lash up hammocks and stow, breakfast, gun drill in the forenoon, rum issue, and dinner. Sail drill, fire drill, evolutions for passing cable, musket practice, and cutlass drill. Evening quarters, down hammocks, and more rum before supper. Stand down the overhead lookouts, lights out, and sleep. All the mind-numbing routine of a ship-of-war that ground the men down to mere numbers and parts of a watch, a division, until they could act without thinking at all—there was punishment in the forenoon watches for those slow to learn. Perhaps for a little relief there would be music and exercise in the second dogwatch, a little make-and-mend in the fresh air after the sun had lost some of its heat; fiddles and tin whistles and barefooted young men dancing hornpipes because they were young and strong and still full of energy. Not that they did not think about things to come anyway, when given half a chance. There were too many warlike preparations to be ignored, like all the extra cartridge bags that the sailmaker and his crew were making up for the master gunner, Mister Gwynn, and his mate, Tulley; why gun drill was a touch more earnest than usual and the men practiced leaping from one battery to another as though they might be called to fire on both beams at once; the rasp of the grindstone from dawn to dusk putting wickedly keen edges on cutlass blades, pike points, bayonets, boarding axes, and officers' swords. For those that were well churched, there was a lot of muttering over prayer books and Bibles. Those that could read and write— perhaps a third of the crew—wrote letters, just in case, and wrote last notes for the others less fortunate. Mr. Dorne, his apothecary assistant, and the loblolly boys brought out the stretchers and carrying boards and refitted them—a most ominous sign—and when Dorne went to the armorer to have his surgical tools honed, everyone shrank away nearly in terror.

“I can make out Cape Henry, sir!” Forrester bawled down from the foremast crosstrees high in the rigging. “
Solebay
is closing the shore!”

“Very well,” Treghues said in a conversational tone that could not have carried much further than his immediate circle. He was turned out in his best uniform coat, as advised by Mr. Dorne, and dressed in a clean white shirt, neck-stock, waistcoat, and breeches. His fingers drummed on the hilt of his ornate smallsword.

Desperate
and
Solebay
were in advance of the fleet line of battle.
Desperate
was flying everything she could from aloft to keep up with the larger frigate in order to serve as the communications link between
Solebay
and
London.
Even with her deeper draft, Captain Everitt's ship had been selected to lead, since Everitt knew the Chesapeake well and had aided Cornwallis and Symonds in selecting the proposed fleet anchorage on the York River.

Alan caught himself yawning, his jaws creaking with the effort to keep them shut. He had been in the middle watch, and had not had much of a chance for any rest after the morning call for deck scrubbing and dawn quarters. He had been lucky to get below long enough to choke down some gruel and change into clean linen and silk stockings. Dorne advised that silk was easier to extract from leg wounds than cotton. He shrugged to settle himself more comfortably into his waistcoat and jacket.

He had seen men yawn before battle; a sure sign of fear and nervousness, he had been told, and he wondered why he was affected in such a manner.
Desperate
would be little more than an observer, and they would be safe as babes in bed, unless something disastrous occurred.

Am I frightened, or just excited by the thought of battle? he asked himself. God knows I've seen enough blood and powder to last me a lifetime. This should be mere rote by now.

Still, the news about de Barras, the lack of information about the whereabouts of de Grasse, and the seeming poor condition of their fleet, all contributed to his anxiety. He had read the Fighting Instructions and then once more perused Clerk's little booklet and had gotten a glimmer of something beyond simple tactics and the movement of a single ship-ofwar.

I was better off before, ignorant about what goes into this sort of endeavor, he thought. God, as nervous as a virgin at a hiring fair! Graves, Hood, and Drake . . . surely they're calmer . . . done it before and all that. If I was still ignorant about this, maybe I'd have gotten a single wink of sleep last night!

He yawned again, and his jaw muscles shot pain down his neck as he tried to restrain himself once more. Let's get it over with! Anything but this miserable ignorance and waiting for doom to come.

He turned to study how the other officers on the quarter-deck were comporting themselves. Monk was doodling on one of his personally marked charts, humming a tune to himself softly. Treghues was a study in self-control, languidly seated on the nettings and railing over the waist and only the movement of his fingers on his sword hilt betraying concern. Lieutenant Railsford was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, passing his brass speaking trumpet from one hand to another. Peck, the marine officer, was making bubbling noises through flaccid lips, totally unaware of his actions.