The French Admiral

'They thought it most clever, and if we still had access to all that timber across the ravines, they might convert more. So these two guns stay with the army.'

'Damn,' Alan expostulated, even more miserably.

'Along with the nacky cock who came up with the idea.'

'Oh, hell!'

I have done it again, Alan cursed himself; I got just too bloody sly for my own good! There's no bloody justice in this world, I swear. Damme for being clever, damme for doing something stupid, it's all one. If I tried to do something dumb, I'd get a caning for it anyway!

'Surely, one midshipman is much the same as another,' Alan said. 'They could bring Forrester over. Let him take some glory.'

'You want to appear keen, do you not, Alan?' David queried, looking at him askance. 'Captain Symonds put it in his reports and asked for you by name.'

'Oh, did he?' Alan said, raising his eyebrows.

Well, perhaps that is a different kettle of fish. When the fleet gets here to relieve us, I could gain favorable interest from Hood and Graves. That couldn't hurt my career.

'I am told,' David Avery told him in a softer voice and from a much closer distance, 'that the captain is in his right mind once more, and was flattered that Symonds asked for you. Even commended you for the effort to convert the pieces to field use. Much as he may have liked to do something good for Forrester, you are the one in favor at present. I should make the most of it.'

'It's simply that land service is so depriving, so dirty and full of bugs and such,' Alan insisted, finding another reason for his reluctance to stay ashore. 'I could use a good delousing, David. Our army is not the cleanest lot I've ever served with.'

'I spent a few nights sleeping rough myself, so I can sympathize.' His friend laughed. 'It's most fortunate we ran into you so we can take the third gun back aboard ship this evening. If there is anything you need from your chest or from our mess to ease your burden, do let me know, and I'll see you get it.'

'That's very kind of you, David,' Alan said, hiding the bitterness he felt at being the ship's perpetual orphan, banished ashore until old age, it seemed, while Avery could loll about with few duties onboard Desperate. Tulley was still incensed about this gun, but he was glad to take charge of the disassembled piece and move it toward the docks, along with a third of Alan's shore party. Alan had no choice but to sigh and direct the teamsters to tow his converted field guns into town, where an army artillery officer was expecting his arrival. They were shoved into the line on the east side of the town, overlooking the river and the docks, almost on the edge of the bluffs.

The inner defense line, for all the work done on it by slaves and soldiers, wasn't much better than what he had seen out in the hills. The rampart was low enough to jump over, and the trenches behind it were not very deep, either, though they were rooved with scrap canvas and tents to keep the rain and sun off the men, and there were small zigzagging trenches about waist high that snaked back into the town through which rations and relieving sentries could communicate with the ramparts. The line was also zigzag for much of its length facing the enemy forces, which would lead attackers into cross fires from front and sides. In some places easier to approach, the fortifications had been given a crenellation in the form of a small redoubt that jutted out onto a higher piece of ground, or one indented to take advantage of a ravine where the foe could congregate and be struck from three sides, instead of only two.

The walls, though, were not three feet high anywhere, barely able to shelter a man standing in the trenches, faced with abatis, strung with chevaux-de-frise to deter cavalry in the easier ground. There were also some outlying redoubts beyond the ramparts as strongpoints, especially on the south-east end of the town, nearest the French landings on the James River, a few clustered to the south corner above the ravine by the Hornwork, a large redoubt that overlooked the open ground around Wormsley's Pond and the creek of the same name, and even one still across the York Creek, but better sited than anything Alan had been involved with.

The town was just behind them, close enough to retire to from the ramparts through the communications trenches and to rest there in the abandoned buildings or homes that had not been commandeered for use already.

'Your guns shall go in here,' the army officer instructed, showing Alan two vacant gunports in the east wall. There the wall was mostly straight, with an extended crenellation to their left. The area of the rampart around the gunports had been built up with fascines and gabions, and wooden ramps were already in place so the guns could rest or recoil smoothly. 'Nice work you did, getting these naval pieces converted for field use.'

'Thank you, sir. What do we do here, though?'

'Cover the river,' the officer shrugged.

'I can't reach the French ships from here with a ball, even at maximum elevation, sir. Unless they come farther up…'

'Then you can fire to your heart's content.'

'Well, I was thinking that we would be more use further west or on the north face, sir. A long nine could drop shot into that big battery the French are building. Or cover the Star Redoubt.'

'No point in that. The Star Redoubt is being abandoned as well. And we have mortars of our own to deal with that battery.'

'With a long nine, sir, I could reach Gloucester Point as well. With so much artillery being put in on this side, it would seem reasonable to expect that we could use our more accurate pieces to provide a counterfire. On solid land, naval gunners can be devilishly accurate.'

'And they could teach their grannies to suck eggs.' The officer frowned. 'We have six-pounders and infantry redans to cover the road from the Star Redoubt, and guns enough to cover the river above the town and strike that battery they're building. So why don't you just get your guns into position and leave the planning to your betters, eh? There's a good lad. More experienced men than you have already made allowance for any contingency, so why not just obey orders?'

Burgess and Governour have the right of it, Alan thought sourly as his gunners began to wheel their charges into the emplacements. Our regular army is a pack of idiots. I don't think they've had an original idea since Cromwell died. We ain't fighting on the French border with Marlborough. We're surrounded and short of powder already.

Still, once in place, Alan was relieved to find that the troops who supported him were mostly marines who could be trusted, so he would not have to share the same rarefied air as the army.

It is a truism that warfare consists mostly of marching off to the possible site of battle, and being thoroughly miserable in the process. And once there, it consists of waiting for that battle to begin and, depending on the climate, the availability of amusements, and the amount of worrying one does while waiting, a pretty miserable process as well. Each morning they rose early and stood to their guns, much as at dawn quarters. Each morning the sea was empty beyond the capes and only the French ships could be seen from the town bluffs or the top of the ramparts; the ones beyond the shoals at the mouth of the York, or the ships far out in the bay blockading the entrances. Inland, they could watch the enemy march into positions; positions in the outer defense line that they had abandoned days before and were now redug and improved to their own detriment, and the joy of their foes.

September ended, and Graves did not come. The first days of October passed by in enforced ennui, with the town now thoroughly invested by both French and Rebel troops. More and more artillery wheeled into position, whole parks of guns. Not just light field pieces, but heavy siege guns and howitzers and mortars that could throw fizzing shells of up to sixteen inches that would burst with great thunderclaps, should they ever cut loose with them.

The American Rebels made a brave show from the ramparts, marching in what seemed very good order, their muskets slung precisely and their step quick and lively, their striped Rebel banner with the starry blue canton and their regimental flags flying. The drums rolled and the fifes whistled thinly, like a man sucking air through his teeth; mostly they played Yankee Doodle, which was about the most nonsensical song Lewrie had ever seen written down, even dumber than most, such as Deny Down or When the World Turned Upside Down. The French troops wore white with rose, purple,