The French Admiral

Islands Squadron.

It was puzzling to Lewrie, all the same, as to just where those French had gotten to, and he mentioned it to Lieutenant Railsford in the evening watch as their ship once more trailed the taffrail lanterns of the heavy units of the fleet, now on their way to New York to collect Admiral Graves and his line-of-battle ships.

'We have beaten them to the coast,' Railsford commented.

'But what happens if the French are now busy retaking Charlestown and the Carolinas, sir?' Alan demanded, as much as a midshipman could make a demand upon a commissioned officer.

'The information all points to the Chesapeake,' Railsford said, looking up at the set of the tops'ls that shone like eery shadow wings in the night. 'So we must expect that the information is correct. Even if they did land south of us, they must know that their fleet could be bottled up in Charleston harbor and lost to the rest of the war effort. And it would only be a matter of time before our ships, with Admiral Graves's as well, and all of Cornwallis's army, would march or sail south and put them under the same sort of siege that won the place last year anyway. The Chesapeake is more vital at this moment, and closer for de Grasse to link up with de Barras's few ships in Newport. Like us, they could only stay on the coast until the equinox, and then have to flee back to the Indies, so here is the best place to effect something strategic. Cornwallis and his army is the magnet that will draw them, as it draws us.'

'Well, sir, it seems to me that if de Grasse is behind us, then he could be sailing into the Chesapeake right now, and us none the wiser. Why not simply take our present fleet into the anchorage at the York River, or wait off the capes while we send a frigate to Admiral Graves and wait for him to arrive?'

'Because we would be only evenly matched without Graves and end up fighting a draw much like Arbuthnot did last year,' Railsford said, grinning at Alan's efforts at strategy. 'And if de Grasse came by way of Cape Francois, who is to say that he has not made combination with other French ships, or stirred those Dons out of Havana? They had ten sail of the line.'

'By way of the Old Bahama Passage!' Alan was enthusiastic. 'I thought that was the way they might come.'

'But then we might be the ones outnumbered and overwhelmed,' Railsford said.

'But if we cruised out to sea, sent frigates to scout, and could fall on the transports, even if we were outnumbered, we could cancel this de Grasse's plans overnight. If I were in charge, I'd… well, sir, there is a hopeful thought for you.'

'You'd cost us the squadron,' Railsford told him. 'And then Graves would not have the force to do anything more. No, Cornwallis and his men and artillery can hold the bay while we assemble everything that floats to be sure we'll smash him when we come back. If he gains the bay while we are up north, then we can bottle him in anyway. He's most like brought troops as reinforcements, stripped the Indies to do it, and with him gone it'll be a year before the French could put together another fleet to send to the Caribbean, if then.'

'Oh, that would be a different prospect entirely, sir,' Alan said, seeing the wisdom of it.

'It's good practice, though, to use your mind as you have been doing. Good practice for when you really are an admiral, God help us.' The first lieutenant chuckled.

'Now there's another hopeful thought indeed, sir!' Alan agreed.

Four bells chimed from the belfry, halfway through the evening watch on a dark night, as the moon waned further. Alan wandered to the lee rail of the quarterdeck and leaned on the bulwarks, for no one could see him there violating the rule that midshipmen never lean on anything, or slouch.

Someday when I'm an admiral. Alan gave a wry laugh. After we win this battle, the war will most like be over, so there won't even be time enough in service to gain my lieutenancy. I suppose the admirals we have at present know what they're doing, so there's no sense in my getting worked up about things. Still…

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

Even 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 ouit 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 byway 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.