The French Admiral

to sort themselves out into a line-ahead of their own, the van now in perfect order. Their center was beginning to exit the bay, and the milling rear division was also sorting itself out of chaos as well.

Desperate was by then near the head of the British line, with the ships of Admiral Drake, almost on the beam of Shrewsbury, the leader. She backed and filled as well to maintain rough station well in sight of the divisional flag in Princessa and in sight of London far to the rear. Finally, when it seemed hours too late, Graves signaled to bear down and engage the opposite ships. But for some reason he left the signal for 'Form line of battle' hoisted as well.

This resulted in all ships turning slightly to starboard to bear down on a bow-and-quarter-line oblique approach, what Clerk's booklet told Alan was named a 'lashing approach.' Since the fleets were converging at a slight angle already, the vans would come together first, then the centers, and the rear divisions in both fleets would remain out of contact or gun range 'til late in the day, unless something was ordered to change it.

It was a daunting prospect to see all 28 enemy ships in one ordered line-ahead, a line much longer than theirs, with many more guns ready to speak thunders; a line that they could not match ship for ship as usual practice, for the French could bring more ships from the rear to double on them once they were engaged.

Alan was on the gun deck with his men when the first ships tried firing at the range of random shot. He could not see anything below the bulwarks and the gangways, aching as he was to witness what would transpire. All he could see were masts and sails and then growing clouds of powder smoke as more and more ships began to trade broadsides. Desperate was at quarters, the men swaying easily by their light nine- pounder guns, which in this battle would be as useful as spit wads at thirty paces. No matter how stiff the discipline, everyone craned his neck for a view, or took little excursions atop the gun barrels or the gangways when the officers were not watching them. Even upwind of the fighting, though, Alan scented the powder smoke and saw the grimy gray-tan wall of smoke climbing higher than the liners' masts and crosstrees. Hiding himself behind the thick trunk of the mainmast, Alan furtively scrambled up on the jear bitts, his favorite vantage point, so that his head was above the line of the bulwarks and hammock nettings. The sight that met his eyes filled him with awe.

'What do you see, Lewrie?' Carey called out below him, hopping up and down in excitement.

'God, what a sight,' Alan breathed. 'It's glorious, it truly is! They're all in range for good practice now— Drake's ships and the French van. You can see only the topmasts and tops'ls of the Frogs, now and then a stab of flame from a gun barrel through the smoke. Our ships are so full of powder fumes they look like they're on fire!'

All the officers were too busy with their telescopes to note if they were sneaking a look. Lewrie reached down and hoisted Carey into place with him.

'Good Lord in Heaven!' Carey exclaimed in wonder. 'Oh, I shall remember this all the days of my life.'

The cannonading increased in fury and volume as he spoke and more ships came within range, and the guns slammed and boomed and barked in an unending storm of fire and metal. As far as they both could see, there were many ships—a forest of ships—with their courses brailed up to avoid the risk of flames, their tops'ls shot through like rags, upper masts hanging drunkenly here and there in both dueling lines of battle. The air quivered with the shock of broadsides, rattling their internal organs, setting their lungs humming with the power and terror of modern warfare. In the British line closest to them, they could witness shot ricocheting off the sea and raising tall waterspouts, could see hard-flung iron balls smashing home to tear loose clouds of paint chips, wood splinters, and spurts of ingrained dust and dirt, striking great sparks when encountering metal and shattering on impact with something as solid as themselves.

'The French line is much longer, isn't it,' Carey said, tears of passion streaking his smutty face. 'Why does not Admiral Hood engage back there?'

'They might double on him if he did,' Alan said. 'They could cut across the end of his line to windward and fall back down to fight on both sides of his ships at once. Perhaps he is waiting for them to try, and he will rake them across their bows when they turn up.'

'Alan,' Carey said, suddenly dead serious. 'I know that war is a terrible thing. But is it so terrible that it is wrong to feel as though we are seeing something grand?'

'I don't think so, it's what they pay sailors for,' Alan japed.

'So it would not be wrong to say that I love this?' Carey pressed.

'No.' Alan smiled. 'I confess I love it, too.'

'Good, 'cause so do I,' Carey said fiercely.

'Mind you, young Carey, I only say that because we are not being shot at personally,' Alan admitted wryly. 'You can cheer all the fame and honor and glory you like when you're seated in the balconies.'

Men were dying over there, ships were slowly being torn asunder by the shocking weight and power of iron; gun carriages were being overturned and their crews pulped in agony, riven by splinters or swatted dead like flies. The hideous reality was, however, over there, and not here in the Desperate, and even with prime examples of butchery not a month in the past to use as an example and a warning, Lewrie could not deny the fact that he was choking up with a pride he had never expected to feel in the Service. His eyes were moist and hot, his throat tight with emotion.

Marine Captain Osmonde back in Ariadne was right, he decided grimly. This is brutal and bloody and cruel and horrible, and it can eat a man up but I swear to God above that I truly do love it! They have made me into a sailor, damn them all, and I will make an officer of myself if I live to manage it!

Shrewsbury, lead ship of all the British line, came reeling out of battle, surrendering her place of honor as she could no longer maintain control over herself. Her rigging was shot to pieces so badly that she had barely a shred of sail aloft. Her gangways and bulwarks on her engaged side were pockmarked and shattered with shot holes, the oak stained black with spent gunpowder. Desperate's people gave her a rousing cheer as she retired, having done all she could do. Sadly, Intrepid, the next ship in line, looked in about the same poor condition; her rudder hanging in tatters from her stern posts, she was being steered by relieving tackle below decks, but she still fought. Next, Princessa was missing her maintopgallant mast and the spanker over the quarterdeck. Her lower shrouds were shot through, threatening the stability of her masts as she rolled. Ajax, to her rear, had hardly any top hamper left, and Terrible was listing noticeably, her lower gunports dangerously close to the water, and her foremast spiralled back and forth as though it would go by the board at any moment. The other ships astern of her could barely be made out in the pall of smoke.

But there was Hood's rear division, now almost dead astern of Desperate, nowhere near firing range, maintaining a maddening line ahead and showing no eagerness to engage, almost parallel to the French line.

'Why does he not bear down,' Lewrie said, almost wringing his hands in frustration. 'Damme, he's throwing away the last chance we have.'

'Get down from there, now,' Mister Gwynn suddenly ordered, up from his magazines to survey the battle with the freedom his warrant gave him. 'Set a good example for the hands, Mister Lewrie.'

'Aye, Mister Gwynn,' Alan replied.

'Twas this very way with Byng in the last war in the Mediterranean,' Gwynn commented as softly as he could once he had strolled aft by Lewrie and young Carey. 'Back when I was a raw rammer man. The way sea battles are. Half the ships never get a chance ta fire a shot.'

'You'd think there was a better way,' Alan complained. 'To bear down and break through the other line or something.'

'Not for the likes of us to say, Mister Lewrie.'

'Goddamme, what a waste.'

'War mostly is a waste,' Gwynn grunted, cutting himself a plug of tobacco to cram into his cheeks. 'Anythin' that takes a man outen a woman's bed and away from easy reach of a bottle is a waste, t' my thinkin'.'

By half after six in the evening, Cape Henry was far astern and almost under the horizon. The action still raged, though the broadsides were becoming very ragged and slow, the gun crews decimated and stunned into numb exhaustion from the continual roar and the shock of horror piled upon horror on those gun decks.