The French Admiral

With a slashed forebrace for a manrope, he lowered himself close to the waiting jolly boat and jumped the last few feet, landing roughly on some of his men who were struggling to ship their oars, making them all curse and grumble.

'Shove off,' he ordered, stumbling over their legs and feet to his place at the tiller. 'Out oars, there! Give way all!'

As long as they were in the lee of the burning prize, they were safe from the warship's attentions, but that situation could not last long.

The ship was now being pounded to matchwood by the French sloop of war, and was well alight but still under way heading west on the making tide and the slight wind for the rest of the anchorage, while their hope of rescue lay east. Within a moment they would lie exposed on the open waters to the guns of the sloop of war, and would be hopelessly vulnerable targets. Taking Railsford's course as a fine example, Alan steered for the darkness to the south and the black shore beyond the other ships.

'Gawd, they got guts, sir,' Daniels said in awe, pointing aft. When Alan looked over his shoulder he could see that the sloop of war, a fine brig-rigged ship of at least fourteen guns, had come about to run down on the burning merchantman, either to nudge her out of the way or put a crew aboard to put her helm over to steer her away from the rest of the threatened transports.

'May they roast in hell for their pains,' Alan said, but it did give them a chance to escape, which Railsford took at once, waving an arm and pointing them back east toward where Desperate was anchored, away from the transports and the possible guard boats that would be gathering to intercept them.

'Row like Satan was after you!' Alan encouraged. 'Put your backs into it like you never did before.'

They tried, he gave them credit for that, but it was a hard row. The tide was against them and splash and dip as they might, sending the boat surging forward with each stroke, they seemed to make no progress at all. He was almost despairing of them keeping up such a furious pace when a gun discharged somewhere and sent at least a six-pound ball humming over them, close enough to wind them with its passage and splash a cable off.

'Who goes there?' an English voice called into the night.

'Desperate!' Railsford shouted back. 'Ahoy, the ship!'

'Come alongside!'

'Thank Christ,' Alan breathed. 'Easy all.'

Desperate had raised her anchors at the first sign of alarm to come to their rescue, since nearly a full third of her crew was off on the raid. She loomed out of the dark, a hard shadow still showing no lights and let her boats nuzzle up to her by her chainwales and entry ports even as she continued to gather way.

'Quickly, now!' Treghues's voice could be heard urging them from the quarterdeck. 'Lead the boats astern after the people are on deck. Mister Monk, lay her nor'-nor'-west. Mister Toliver, hands to the braces to wear ship. Mister Gwynn, we can use some of your gunners on the sheets and the braces.'

Life on the Desperate could be drab and dull, the food could approach swill at times and Treghues could be an unpredictable martinet, but every man jack was exceedingly delighted to get back on board.

'I shall expect your report in the morning, Mister Railsford,' the captain said as the ship turned onto her new course and the confusion of overworked hands and frightened arrivals began to sort themselves out to their duty stations. 'What a muddle!'

Lewrie went to the larboard gangway for a moment before joining his gunners in the waist. The French prize that had almost been theirs was now turned crabwise and though still burning fiercely was no longer any danger to her consorts, some of which had cut their cables in their eagerness to avoid being set on fire. However, the sloop of war was heading their way.

There were other warships to seaward of them, but of no immediate concern, and by the light of the fire they could espy no ship of any strength that could beat up to windward on the light breeze against that tide to reach them before dawn.

'Mister Gwynn, draw grape from the larboard battery and reload with solid shot,' Railsford called from aft. 'We shall be having company soon and must give him a proper greeting.'

Alan dropped down into the waist and supervised his gunners as the bags of langridge and grape were wormed from the barrels and tossed aside.

Gun captains rolled nine-pounder balls around the deck to find the most perfectly cast that would fly true when fired, then had them rammed down the muzzles and tamped down. Arms raised in the air to indicate each gun's readiness.

'Run out yer guns,' Gwynn ordered, and the crews hauled on the side tackles to trundle their charges across the slightly canted deck to the port sills where the carriages thumped against the hull. Side tackle was laid out for smooth recoil with no snags; train tackles were overhauled as well.

'Prime yer guns.' Gun captains reached down with prickers to poke holes through the serge cartridge bags. They inserted powder-filled goose quills into the touchholes and stood by with their slow matches.

'Wots 'e got, Mister Lewrie?' the nearest gun captain asked.

'Six or seven guns per broadside, six-pounders most like; that's what they felt like when they were shooting at the prize,' he answered.

'Wuz she worth much, sir?' another man asked.

'Empty. Usual Frog trash—filth and no cargo.'

To get close enough to make his lighter guns do damage, the French commander had to beat up to them close-hauled on the starboard tack. Since Desperate was still making for the mouth of the York River, that meant that the French sloop would spend long minutes almost bows on to them, hoping for a convergence. But this would leave her open for raking fire on her own bow. And when the range was about two cables, and the target barely recognizable in the darkness now that the burning prize had burned out or sunk, this was what Desperate proceeded to give her.

'As you bear… fire!'

One at a time, starting with the larboard carronade on the fo'c's'le, the guns barked harshly, flinging themselves backwards to the center line and stabbing long amber flames into the night. The hands threw themselves on their artillery, sponging out the barrels, inserting new cartridges, ramming down fresh shot, and running out, as well drilled as clever lit-tie German clockwork toys freshly wound up.

The French sloop of war replied, aiming high as was their practice, but the angle of convergence was getting more and more acute and her guns could not bear, so most of the storm passed overhead and to sternward on the first broadside.

He'll not cut us off, Alan decided, seeing the way his own ship was headreaching on the Frenchman; he'll have to haul his wind or pass astern of us, and we'll get clean away.

The shadow of the enemy vessel did lengthen as she turned, seeing that she was not fast enough to intercept Desperate. But as she did so, she got off another broadside, and this one brought all her guns to bear. There was a loud crash from aloft, and things began to rain down.

'Jesus Christ!' A gun captain yelped in alarm as he was almost beheaded by a heavy halyard block that crashed to the deck beside him. Rope snaked down to droop over the guns as braces, stays and sail-tending lines were torn loose.

'Look out below amidships!'

The main tops'l yard came swinging down like a scythe to smash into the larboard gangway, scattering the brace tenders and sheetmen, who had to dive for their lives.

'As you bear… fire!' Gwynn yelled. 'Lewrie, take three men and cut that raffle away. Save the yard if ya can. We'll not see its like in the Chesapeake.'

'Aye, sir.' Leaving a party from the gangway to anchor the free end, he went aloft to see what was holding it and found it resting on the edge of the maintop, snagged by its starboard rigging into the shrouds. The topmast and topgallant mast above it were leaning drunkenly over the starboard side, ready to let go themselves.

'Yeoman,' he called down, 'work the butt end forrard by the shrouds and begin lashing down.' He turned to the bosun's mate, Weems, who had come aloft with him. 'We'll have to get a gantline on this end and just lash her to the shrouds. She'll lean there alright for now, do you not think?'

'Aye, sir,' Weems replied, sending a man further aloft to haul in a surviving parrel and preventer backstay to