The French Admiral

'Oh, don't be such a Cassandra,' David sighed. 'Once Graves gets his fleet in any sort of order, he'll turn about and come back into the bay, and where will de Grasse be then?'

'The only reason they harvested Cassandra's liver is because she was always right,' Lewrie said, grinning. 'Keep that in mind, my lad.'

'I love you dearly, Alan, but there are times when you have absolutely no faith in our superiors,' David replied, withholding most of his vexation. 'If you weren't so jaundiced in your outlook, you'd fare all the better. Think on this: there's a clutch of French transports in that bay, most likely without decent escorts, what with de Grasse and de Barras off ahead of Admiral Graves. We could snap one or two of them up tonight on our way in.'

'What if Symonds and his frigates have already done so?' Alan countered. 'They might not have left much for us. At least, for once, I hope they haven't.'

'God, you're hopeless,' David grumped.

'But still alive and prospering,' Alan retorted.

The seas had begun to rise once they got in soundings. They reduced sail bit by bit as it got darker and darker, so that not even the faintest reflection of the setting sun would gleam from the upper yards. Just before entering the black channel near midnight, they even brailed up the main course to reduce the chance of fire if they were intercepted by a lurking French vessel. They then went to quarters.

Not a light showed above the gangways, and the slow-match in the tubs by each gun was shielded from sight and the gunports still were tightly closed so they would not give themselves away.

'Ships in the bay, sir!' The message was passed down from the topmast, from the lone lookout to the maintop to the quarterdeck staff. 'Ridin' lights aburnin'!'

'Three men to each gun, excess crews stand easy amidships,' Mister Gwynn the gunner ordered softly. 'Be ready to leap to it on either beam.'

'Lewrie?' A disembodied voice called from the quarterdeck. Lewrie recognized it as Railsford's.

'Aye, sir.'

'Do you go forward and remind the boy at the belfry to ring no bells but only turn the half-hour glass at the change of watch.' Railsford thought a moment as it neared midnight. 'Then take charge of the fo'c's'le.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

He went forward, stumbling over men and gun tackle in the stygian darkness until he reached the belfry at the break of the fo'c's'le, where one of the ship's boys stood by the bell.

'You ring that damned thing and the first lieutenant'll have your head off,' Lewrie said. 'Turn the watch glass, hour glass and all when the small glass runs out, but no bells.'

The other two were peering almost eyeball-close to see when the last of the sand ran out of the half-hour glass and did not answer, but only snuffled in anticipation. Alan went on up to the fo'c's'le and the carronade gun crews, making sure the slow-match for the pair of short-ranged 'smashers' was safely out of sight on the gun deck first.

'Sitwell,' he whispered into the gloom.

''Ere, Mister Lewrie.'

'Stand easy.'

'Aye, sir.'

Once on the foredeck, Alan could see much better in the night, and the assembly of anchored ships ahead of them were quickly evident by their riding lights in the taffrail lanterns. There seemed enough ships there for a couple of brigades of troops, perhaps enough supplies for a full season of campaigning. The French were in the Chesapeake to stay, certainly. And where they were, there would be Rebel units as well.

'Sitwell, send a man aft to the quarterdeck and request a glass,' Alan said. 'Neither of the lookouts has one up here.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

The hand returned via the gangways with a day telescope instead of one of the precious night glasses. It was better than nothing, but did not gather the light as well. At least I don't have to look at everything upside down and backwards, Lewrie thought, extending the tube and raising it to his eye. Expecting some kind of guard ship at the mouth of the main channel that led to the precious merchantmen, he looked instead off to either side of the bows for a darker, harder shadow in the blackness. Even a rowed cutter could give the game away, and if there were indeed French warships in the bay, it would summon one of them up in a moment.

'Summat ta starboard, sir,' one of the bow lookouts exclaimed in a harsh whisper. 'Looks like a ship, sir, four points off the bow.'

Alan swivelled about and laid the telescope on the man's shoulder to let his arm guide his eye. 'Yes, it's a ship, alright, under tops'ls and jibs only. Going away?'

'Cain't tell, sir.'

'Sitwell, send a man aft. Enemy ship to starboard, four points off the bow.'

'Aye, Mister Lewrie.'

Within minutes the messenger was back, a little out of breath from making two trips to the quarterdeck in as many minutes. Even before he could lean back on something to rest, Alan was snapping fingers for him again.

'Run and tell the captain the ship to starboard is slipping aft and appears to be going away. She's six points off the bow now.'

'Aye, aye, sor!' the man gasped.

The minutes passed agonizingly slowly as the French guard ship went her unwary way further off toward the Middle Ground and the north end of the ship channel until she was lost in the blackness, her slight wake not even discernible any longer against the pattern of the few cat's paws.

'Guard boat, sir,' the lookout called, 'dead ahead. A cutter o' some kind, Mister Lewrie.'

'Sitwell, pass it on.'

'Maple,' Sitwell hissed. 'Go aft an' repeat the message.'

'Agin, Mister Sitwell?' the now weary man complained. There was a meaty sound much resembling a bare foot connecting with someone's nether anatomy and the messenger staggered off along the gangways once more.

Alan could make out the enemy, a large cutter with a single mast and a gaff sail and jib winged out for a reach across the wind. She was crossing left to right ahead of them, perhaps two cables off, but Desperate was slowly falling down on her and it would take a crew of blind men to miss seeing her!

'Anything to larboard?' he asked.

'Nothin' yet, Mister Lewrie,' the other lookout replied.

'Sitwell, another man aft. The cutter is heading north towards our starboard, about two cables off at right angles.'

'Aye, sir.'

They could feel Desperate alter course slightly a few minutes later, angling to larboard closer to the coast, where she would be merely another dark shadow against the hulking darkness of Cape Henry and the shore of the bay, while the cutter went blithely on without spotting them.

'By God, we're in the anchorage,' Alan muttered. 'Too close in for anything but rowing boats. Everyone watch the surface close in.'

Desperate wore to starboard, altering course again as she got too close into the shore, probably at Mister Monk's insistence. They were now closing in on those tempting transports that slumbered with only an anchor watch, thinking themselves protected in a secure harbor. Hands came forward to brail the forecourse to reduce their ship's top-hamper, lessening the chance that anyone would spot her. With the taffrail lanterns throwing long glimmering troughs of reflections on the sea, they could now spot any oared guard boat rowing about the transports much more easily, could catch those flashes from oar looms and the splashes they made. It did indeed look as though they might have some of the enemy as prizes before morning!

Anchored tantalizingly close, the French transport fleet looked like a small seaport town with all its street lighting burning in a peaceful evening. Further beyond the transports, the shore was also lit up with the campfires of a newly landed army, adding to the impression of a town.

Desperate took in all her sails, laboriously reloaded her guns with grapeshot and