The French Admiral

of the spanker was not understood as 'negative contact'; negative something, maybe, but what? The nearest frigate, the Nymphe, hoisted another flag that stood for 'interrogative.' Nymphe then lowered the interrogative and raised another which ordered Desperate to close with her. Since Nymphe was commanded by a post-captain and Desperate, as a sixth-rate, boasted only a commander, they had to yield their advantage to windward and come down to her, which would result in a long hard beat back to their assigned position once the message had been passed and understood.

'Play with your fancies: and in them behold upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; hear the shrill whistle which doth order give to sounds confused,' Mr. Dorne, their nattily attired surgeon, was emoting as roundly as Garrick in Drury Lane. 'Behold the threaden sails, home with the invisible and creeping wind, draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea, breasting the lofty surge!'

Oh Christ, he must have aired his wig again, Alan thought.

'Henry the Fifth!' Railsford barked with glee. 'Quite appropriate!'

'Oh, do but think you stand upon the rivage and behold a city on th' inconstant billows dancing; for so appears this fleet majestical, holding due course for Harfleur.' Dorne ran on, now striking an oratorical pose, to the amusement of the assembled officers. Even cherubic Lieutenant Peck of the marines was smiling as though in fond memory, but being a marine, Alan was not sure that grin had anything to do with Shakespeare. Probably thinking on the last orange-vending wench he fondled in a theatre.

'Sounds most powerful like it, indeed sir,' Monk agreed.

'Now you tell me, Captain, that the Bard did not do some time in the sea service,' Dorne crowed.

'Follow, follow, grapple your minds…' Treghues began with some enthusiasm, but then stumbled and groped, not so much to remember the verse as to wander off the subject entirely, as though something else had caught his attention. He raised his telescope to look at Nymphe once more.

'Follow, follow, grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,' Forrester recited, unable to resist the temptation to toady with his betters or show off his excellent education. 'And leave your England as dead midnight still, guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, either past or not arrived to pith and puissance, for who is he whose chin is but enriched with one appearing hair that will not follow these culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?'

'Hah, hah, young sir, a scholard lurks!' Dorne shook with pleasure. 'You are most familiar with him, I grant you.'

'Aye, sir.' Forrester beamed, trying to put on an air of modesty. 'Especially Henry the Fifth, and that passage, which deals with the Navy.'

'And when do you get enriched with that one appearing hair, Forrester?' Carey asked, with all the carrot-headed innocence that only the youngest midshipman could get away with.

'You would do well to grapple your mind to your duties and making something of yourself, young sir,' Treghues said, shutting off their open enjoyment of Carey's dig. 'Better indeed to emulate Forrester than be japing and frivolous! Or you shall never live long enough to grow that one appearing hair in my ship.'

Poor Carey flinched as though he had been slapped in the mouth, and his eyes welled up in an instant. 'I am sorry, sir,' he quavered, on the edge of losing all control. Carey spun away and almost ran to leeward to be as alone as a completely humiliated and hurt thirteen-year-old boy can be on a ship.

Had discipline allowed, the assembled officers and warrants might have given an orchestrated chorus of groans at the harshness with which Treghues had chastised Carey for such a harmless remark. Even Treghues realized that he had gone a little too far, for he barked at them to be about their business and not stand about like cod's-heads.

Poor little get, Alan thought. Still, it's better him than me for a change, and he has been getting away with a lot lately.

'Don't stand there making gooseberry eyes at me, Lewrie,' Treghues blustered. Alan realized he had raised his eyebrows in surprise at Carey's humiliation and Treghues considered it a reproof. 'I doubt you know any Shakespeare at all, do you?'

'A little, sir,' Alan replied, trying desperately to remember some.

'Let's hear it.'

'Um, uh…'

'As I thought,' Treghues said primly. 'By the heavens, you're a rogering buck with no wit at all, aren't you? What was the last book you read? The guide to Covent Garden women? That Cleland trash?'

The last interesting one, yes, Alan had to admit, if only to himself. 'A book, well, a chapbook really, about naval battles, sir.'

'Who wrote it?'

'A man named Clerk, sir. A Scot. Avery's father sent it.'

'A Navy officer?' Treghues asked sharply.

'No, I don't think so, sir, but it was a most interesting—'

'And I suppose you think that makes you equal to an admiral now, does it, just like this store clerk?'

'His name is Clerk, sir—'

'Fictional trash,' Treghues sneered. 'Bend your mind to your duties, sir! Take to heart what you read in the Bible this morning. Scotsmen, of all things!'

Since the morning's lesson had been from Genesis, there wasn't much that Alan could take to heart, unless he wished to recreate the human race, and he had already had a fair head start on that issue. Thankfully, Treghues turned away to more interesting things, allowing Alan to escape with a whole skin and to take refuge in what duties he could find.

He did not consider himself such a great sinner, not after all the examples in his life for comparison, so it was hard to reject the wave of self-pity that confronted him. When he had joined Desperate, even after a fatal duel for Lucy Beauman's honor, Treghues had not been so badly disposed toward him, not until that French gunner had smacked him with a rammer. There had been a time when Treghues had treated him fairly, decently, had thought him a 'comer.' To recognize that Treghues treated everyone oddly now was little consolation.

'Mister Lewrie,' Railsford called from aft.

'Aye, sir?'

'Mister Cheatham requests your assistance with the ship's books in the holds. Do you attend him?'

'Aye, sir, directly,' Alan answered in relief.

Once below with their youngish purser in the bread room, Alan could relax a little, though he was sure that Cheatham had good reasons to despise him after his and Avery's escapade. But Cheatham put him at ease almost at once.

'The Jack in the bread room is aft in the rum stores at present, Mister Lewrie,' Cheatham said. 'We shall be opening a new cask of salt meat for noon issue, and I need someone to attest as to its fitness.'

'Aye, sir.'

'Care for some beer?' Cheatham asked, waving a hand lazily at the keg in the corner.

'Beg pardon, Mister Cheatham, but Captain Treghues has me on water and ship's rations for the next ten days,' Alan told him, licking his lips all the same. 'After yesterday, I would not like to get either one of us in more trouble.'

'Devil take it, Lewrie. Take a stoup,' he commanded, which order Alan was only too happy to obey. He took down a wooden mug and poured himself a pint.

'Confusion to our foes, sir,' Alan said, before taking his first sip.

'Hear, hear!' Cheatham acknowledged, tapping a pint for himself as well. 'Now, Mister Lewrie, while we have some privacy, just what have you done that would turn the captain against you so badly?'

'I… I would rather that remain private, Mister Cheatham, sir,' Alan said, wondering if he had to stand on the quarterdeck nettings and tell the whole world before they were satisfied. 'It is not so much what I have done, but what has happened to Commander Treghues.'

'I will allow that he has not been himself for the last month or so,' Cheatham said, frowning between quaffs of beer. 'There is a question as to whether he is in full possession of his faculties.'

'Mister Cheatham, were we ashore in peacetime, Treghues would be confined to Bedlam, playing with his