The French Admiral

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-of-war.

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 quarterdeck 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.

Trust the bullocks to show great calm, Alan thought with secret delight, nudging David to turn and witness Peck's behavior.

'If he had a beard, he'd be eating it,' Avery japed softly.

'Signal from Solebay, sir!' Forrester screeched. ''Enemy in sight'!'

'Oh, shit,' Alan whispered.

'Oh,' Treghues said, getting to his feet, but otherwise showing no emotion. 'Mister Avery, repeat that signal, will you.'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'Can you see any ships from the masthead?' Treghues bawled, his hands cupped around his mouth.

'No, sir!' Forrester replied, his voice breaking with the effort. 'Lots of bare trees, sir!'

'Damned foolishness,' Treghues sniffed.

'Settlers here 'bouts strip pine trees, sir,' Monk commented, going to the captain's side. 'Then they fires the slash 'round the base ta smoke the tar out while they're still standin'. Mayhap that's what they sees.'

'Perhaps,' Treghues said, nodding. 'Has the signal been acknowledged?'

'Aye, sir,' Avery answered.

'Very good,' Treghues said. Judkin, his steward, came on deck to bring Treghues a mug of something to drink and he sipped at it thoughtfully, looking up at the rigging. 'Mister Railsford, we shall stand on to the capes as long as Solebay does, but I would admire if you reduced sail. Get the stuns'ls off her to begin with.'

'Aye, aye, sir. Topmen aloft! Trice up and lay out to take in stuns'ls!'

'Might as well strip down to all plain sail,' Treghues said casually. 'Get the royals off her, too.'

'Aye, sir,' Railsford agreed, anxious to be doing something other than stand around and fidget, and glad for some hard toil to take the men's minds off the possibility of battle as well.

'Signal from Solebay, sir!' Forrester howled.

'Speak, thou apparition!' Treghues barked back, almost in good spirits, making Alan wonder just what it was that was in that drink and wanting some if he did not have to sell his soul to the devil to get it.

'Enemy is French, sir!'

'Well, I sincerely doubt it would be the Prussians!' their captain erupted, which brought a welcome bout of laughter to the decks to loosen the tension.