The French Admiral

''Ere, sir,' a red-coated non-com answered from the darkness. 'A comp'ny o' th' 23rd preesent an' haccounted fer, sir. Thirty-h'eight privates, one corp'rl en' me, sir.'

'Give me your corporal and 29 men then. Count 'em oft and the next boat will take the rest,' Alan said. 'Tell 'em to sit in the middle on the bottom and not get in the way of the oarsmen.'

'Right, sir,' the sergeant replied, disappointed that he would not find immediate rescue, but still in charge of his poise and his men.

'Wy we gots ta wait, sarge?' a plaintive voice wailed from the night. 'They's plenny o' room!'

'My arse on a bandbox there is!' Alan said sharply. 'Want to drown out there wearing all that kit? Now hurry up and get aboard with the first thirty.'

Once in the boat, and the boat back out on the black waters, the troops sat still as mice, breathing shallowly as they sensed how unstable and ungainly the barge really was in the grip of the current.

This is going to be a muddle, Alan thought sadly, realizing how companies were going to be separated upon landing. Even with one regiment or battalion transported at a time, where they would land on the far shore was up to the vagaries of the individual coxswains of the boats involved, with part of one unit landed in the cove, on the point, to right or left of the area still held by Tarleton and Simcoe. They would also be landing into the teeth of a shelling, and it would be hours before each unit sorted itself out into proper military order for the breakthrough at bayonet point. It would be dark, and regimental facings and distinctive uniform trim would be almost lost to the harried officers, who would be searching or their people. Alan was supposed to link up with all the boats under command of a lieutenant from one of the disabled ships who would lead all the boats bearing one unit to a single landing, but in the almost total darkness, he would be lucky to tag onto any group of boats.

'Twenty-third over here,' a strained voice called over the sound of the continuing artillery barage. 'All boats with 23rd regiment here!'

He could only guess as to the direction of the voice, for sound could do strange things on the water at night, as he'd already learned to his detriment from his first experiments in boats. Hoping for the best, Alan put the tiller bar over and steered in the wake of a gaggle of boats who were already under way. The current would not allow any stop for cogitation. Sitting up on the high stern thwart of the barge, he could barely espy the boat ahead and the boat astern of him.

Once the tide began to flood and counteract the current of the river, the rowing did become much easier. They made two round trips in the first hour while the men were still strong and unwearied, but that slowed down as the night drug on. The only rest was on the beach or beside the pier, and the troops loaded too quickly to allow much.

'Easy all,' Alan called as they drifted into the York side of the river for the third time. With the barge empty, it was not so hard to row, but the very devil to fight across the current. The tide was now pushing them upriver without his having to countersteer, and when Lewrie dipped a hand into the water, he could scoop up a mouthful of very salty water instead of the fairly fresh water of earlier.

'Boat your oars, stand by to ground.'

Men splashed into the shallows to take charge of the bow and drag it up onto the strand. His crew slumped down in exhaustion as the hull ground and thumped against the shingle.

'Everyone ashore,' Alan said. 'Coe, break out the barrico of water. We need a rest.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' Coe said with some enthusiasm.

'Might rotate the larboard men for the starboard men, too, Coe,' Alan ordered. 'Keep 'em from cramping.'

'Aye, sir, 'at it would. Water, sir?'

'Aye, I'd admire a cup.'

Another boat ground alongside his, its crew bent low over their own oars with weariness, and seeing what Alan's crew was doing, went over the side for a rest as well.

'Here, stop that!' a thin voice cried.

'Carey?' Alan asked out of instinct.

'Lewrie? They just got out of the boat!'

'They're worn to a frazzle. Let 'em take a rest for a few minutes. How are you doing so far?'

'Main well, I suppose.' Carey sulked on his stern thwart, still too unsure of himself to exert much authority with the hands, and smarting from being countermanded.

'We're making good progress.' Alan sighed, sipping at his water. 'Most of the Brigade of Guards across by now. My last trip was light infantry, I think. Hard to tell in the dark.'

'Mine, too,' Carey said. Then, in a wheedling tone, 'Lewrie, may we trade boats?'

'Is yours sinking?' Alan chuckled, stepping ashore and looking as close as he could at Carey's barge. Carey scrambled ashore to stand with him so he could speak privately.

'They won't work for me, Alan, not like they'd work for you. I have Fletcher as senior hand, and he simply ignores me half the time. I… I think they have some rum. I could hear them giggling and getting groggy.'

'Fletcher, that farmer,' Alan said. 'I expect the troops have some small bottles on them and they're sharing out. You put him straight right now.'

'Who's your senior man?'

'Coe. One of the foresheet men. Good and steady.'

'Then why don't we trade boats? I can get along with Coe, Alan, but I can get nothing out of Fletcher, he's such a surly bastard.'

'No,' Alan said, after thinking about it for a long moment.

'But, Alan, I…'

'Look here, Carey,' Alan whispered, reaching out in the dark and taking the younger boy by the upper arm. 'Most of the seamen I've ever met have been surly bastards. They're not your favorite uncles, so one senior hand is just as good as another. If they won't work for you as chearly as you want, then it's up to you to make 'em do it. You're not in the mess now. You're a midshipman in the King's Navy, so why don't you start acting like one? Avery and I are not here to cosset you anymore. You're on your own bottom, and you have a job to do, so you had best be about it the best way you can.'

By God, I'm sorry I said that, Alan told himself as Carey took himself off, for a quick weep most likely. But it had to be said sooner or later. We've been shielding him long enough and letting him get away with his puppy shines, 'stead of putting some spine into him.

'What is the delay here?' a cultured voice called fruitily.

'A short rest, sir,' Alan called back. 'We've done three trips so far and the hands are fagged out and thirsty.'

'There's no time for that,' the owner of that plumby voice dictated. 'It's near midnight and there are thousands of troops still waiting to get across. Here, corporal, begin loading these two boats.'

Several infantrymen began approaching Alan's boat laden with an assortment of boxes and bags. Alan could hear the clink of metal and glass from them.

'Military stores, sir?' Alan queried with a lazy sneer.

'Of course they are, sir.'

Alan stopped one of the soldiers and took a heavy canvas bag off him. He undid the knot at the top and pulled it apart to reach down into the burden and see for himself what was in it. He smiled in the dark.

'Silver candlesticks might make good langridge if cut up, I suppose, sir,' Alan drawled archly. 'They're a bit too expensive to be melted down in a bullet mold, and I doubt anyone would appreciate being so expensively shot, sir.'

'Now look here…'

'No, sir. I am taking troops only. No personal baggage.'

'Do you know who I am, sir?' the fruity-voiced officer snapped.

'A suddenly much poorer man, sir,' Alan shot back. 'Other than that, I could not give a fart who you are. Take your loot somewhere else, sir.'

Thwarted, the officer railed for a few minutes longer, then made off up the beach for the piers to try other boats, pressed by the urgency of escape before dawn.

'That's enough rest,' Alan called out. 'Fletcher, Coe, fetch your men back to the boats.'

'Aye, sir,' Coe replied. ''Ere, lads, back ta work, now.'