The French Admiral

close to insubordination and back talk, which could cost him a full dozen at the gratings from a cat-o'-nine-tails. He swung out of the rigging with lithe skill and scrabbled down a newly rigged and tarred backstay to the deck before Alan could think of another word to say.

'Haul away on the top tackles,' Coke commanded, and the blocks began to roar and squeal as the topgallant began to make its way up the mast.

There was enough to do to take everyone's mind off the sighting in the next hour, and the seaman reported back quickly and fell to work with a will, evidently glad to have survived speaking to a quarterdeck officer instead of Treghues directly. Anyway, it was no concern of theirs as long as Desperate was not ready for sea in all respects. Had the strange cloud been a host of angels come ready for Armageddon, they would have had to wait until the bosun had the ship restored to 'Bristol Fashion.'

By the time the fore and aft stays had been rigged for proper tension on the topgallant mast and its yard had been hoisted aloft to be refitted, the seaman had a higher perch over the bluffs and trees of the York peninsula and the outlying islands, almost into Lynnhaven Bay itself, and once more he called out for attention to seaward.

'Now what?' Alan frowned as he balanced on the foot rope of the topgallant yard to aid in brailing up the new sail to the spar.

'Take a look now, Mister Lewrie, sir,' the man said, trying to keep vindication from his tone, though it was a given that the man had been right, had known it all along and was pointedly not calling all officers and midshipmen fools for ignoring him.

Alan leaned into the yard to free his hands to shade his eyes once more, and this time he stiffened with intense interest. 'Stap me!' he said.

The strange cloud was a lot closer now, well inside the Middle Ground, high enough up over the horizon to reveal the graceful curving shapes of royals, topgallants, and a hint of tops'ls. The little gunboat was coming up over the horizon ahead of the cloud, as if she were leading. The cloud had split, part of it advancing toward the mouth of the York.

'Deck there!' Alan bawled. 'Send up a telescope! Ships in sight!'

'Hood an' Graves?' the carpenter asked from the crosstrees below them. He was not as spry as he had been in his youth, and going aloft was no longer one of his required duties, so he was taking no chances on any unsafe handhold over one hundred feet above the deck.

'Can't tell, Chips,' Alan replied.

'Musta caught up with them Romish bastards an' give 'em a good drubbin'. Mebbe run 'em halfway back ta Brest!' The carpenter chortled. 'Now we kin go back over ta the James an' shoot the Frog sojers ta shit.'

If it was indeed the return of the British fleet, Alan realized it would be late in the day before they made their stately way into the fleet anchorage in the York, and nothing could change that, so there was no reason to be impatient. On land or at sea, things moved at their own speed, which was usually damned slow, like a four-hour dinner party. Patience was one of the prime virtues of the age, so Alan felt no hectic desire to have that telescope within the next blink of an eye. He was getting anxious, however; that old shivery, prickling reeling was back, plucking at his heart strings and knotting up cold in his innards.

It could be Graves and Hood, he told himself as he steeled himself to show outward calm. If de Grasse decided to sheer off now, he's landed his troops and guns. I've not heard the Frogs really ever risk too much with their fleets. But Graves was such a tremulous poltroon t'other day, he more like simply turned about and let them go in peace. Best, in the long run. He's finally here, and he can seal the bay. Even a halfwit can accomplish that.

'Glass, sir,' a nimble young topman offered, panting from his long climb to the topgallant yard with the telescope. Alan slung it over his shoulder like a musket and scaled up to the cap of the topgallant mast for a better vantage. Hugging the mast, he drew out the tube to its full extension and steadied himself for a look-see.

The first thing that caught his eye was the little ketch-rigged gunboat, now heading straight for the mouth of the York and the passage between the two outlying shoals. She was flying all the sail she could safely carry still hull down. Beyond her, only royals and topgallants were showing—ships of some kind. It was still too far to make out any identifying details, but there were at least eight to ten large ships headed for the York—they overlapped so much it was hard to get an accurate count. He swiveled to look over at Lynnhaven Bay and saw another pack of sails headed in for the old French anchorage, merely a gentler hint of ships, since they were much further away from him, even with Desperate anchored the most easterly of the ships in the base. But he could make out two ships closer to him, two ships that he took to be Iris and Richmond. Was it his imagination, or were they also headed in to join their sister ships in the York? Bows on to him, they were now.

'Pass the word to the deck,' he suddenly said. 'At least ten sail of the line bound for the York, and an unknown number of sail headed for Lynnhaven Bay. No identification yet.'

While he clung to his perch, topmen came up around him to haul up the royal mast and the light royal yard, to secure them into position and link the braces to the lower yards and drop new rope down to the deck and the handling tackle.

By eleven-thirty in the morning, Desperate was a whole ship once more. The lifting lines were flaked down or coiled away for future need, and the crew dismissed to their rum ration and the prospect of hot food. Alan could have joined them, hut he remained in the rigging, now almost to the peak of the royal mast so that nothing on the peninsula would block his view, not the bluffs around the town and harbor and not the lower land out near the islands and shoals. There was a meal on the mess table for him, but he could not go below without knowing for sure, so he remained out of a perverse sense of duty, swaying back and forth as the ship gently heaved and rolled and the masts slowly spiraled against the bright blue sky. He would have to go down soon, for Treghues still insisted on him and Avery coming to his cabins and reading aloud from the Old Testament; after the paint incident, they were all there now.

The ships bound into Lynnhaven Bay and the James he would never be able to identify—they were simply too far off. But it did seem as if several of them—dare he call them frigates?—had separated from the mysterious main body and were closing in on what he took to be Richmond and Iris, and that was damned ominous.

Closer in and now almost to the east, the little gunboat was now nearly hull up; she was close enough to spot her national ensign, and with a strong telescope almost catch the whip of her long commissioning pendant. Behind her, with all sail plans above the horizon, there appeared now a full dozen ships of the line and what appeared to be a couple more frigate-sized vessels.

There was a puff of smoke from the gunboat, a tiny bloom of gray torn away almost at once into a light haze. It was too far away to hear the cannon, but it was a signal nonetheless.

'Oh, Christ, no,' he muttered.

On the ketch's foremast, there rose a signal flag. It was from Admiral Graves's book, of course, since the local patrol craft were a part of his North American Squadron, and he had seen this particular flag hoist in the last few days aboard the Solebay as she had led the fleet down to the Cape Henry entrance to the bay on the fifth.

Enemy In Sight.

'Goddamn them,' he growled. 'Just goddamn the incompetent shits.' He tried to read his feelings; would it be more suitable to scream and rant, to be petrified with fear for the future, to play up game as a little guinea cock? He was surprised to feel absolutely nothing, none of the emotions others might consider appropriate to match the situation.

'Deck, there!' he yelled as loud as he could, and saw several white faces turn up to look at him from the quarterdeck. 'Enemy in sight! French ships in the bay!'

He did not have to repeat it.

That ought to spill some soup on the mess deck, he thought. Christ, we are well and truly fucked!

Desperate relayed the hoist to Symonds in the Charon, and the little gunboat was ordered back out to sea to scout. She was not gone for long, and was forced to come scuttling back to the safety of the river two hours later, bearing bad news.

Richmond and Iris had been overwhelmed and taken as prizes by the French. There were at least eight sail of the line in Lynnhaven Bay, with several more ships that might