maybe two, before they could expect the tide to refloat Feather's barge, hours in which they would be exposed as naked and helpless as foundlings to the full view of the French blocking ships now working back to their stations in the York. 'We'll have to man-haul her into deeper water, then head for those marshes over there.' Alan sighed wearily. 'I have nine oars left. We'll share them and the crews out and find some place to hide.'
'That's where I was agoin', sir,' Feather agreed, careful not to nod his head too energetically. 'They's a deep inlet round that second point ta the left, an' ya kin see the forests. We lost our water and biscuit, so me lads ain't 'ad nothin' since last night. We wuz gonna see what we could scrounge up afore 'eadin' back.'
'We have some, not much. Share it out with your men, but be sparing,' Alan told him.
'Aye, thankee, sir.'
'Seen anyone else?' Alan asked. 'Ours or theirs?'
'Mebbe two er three o' our barges went by upriver just 'bout dawn, but too far out ta 'ail. Frog ships're back in the mouth o' the river, but no patrol boats yit, sir.'
Good as it was to know that they were not alone in their isolation, their situation had not been improved by the addition to the party.
Alan looked about the beach as he sat down at the high tide line among the screening sea oats. There were eighteen sailors, plus Feather the quartermaster's mate and Coe as steady senior hands. There were not thirty soldiers, including officers. They had one barrico of water, which would not make more than a taste for each man, one box of biscuits, which could not sustain life for more than a day or two, two boat compasses, and two leaky and unseaworthy barges. Their powder was soaked, so they could not hunt, and if they did get some game, they might not be able to light a fire to cook with. His sailors had come away with only jackknives and cutlasses for weapons. Lewrie had two pistols on him, both sure to misfire after all the rain, his midshipman's dirk, and a cutlass. Not exactly daunting prospects if they ran across Rebel troops ashore on the neck. Alan cocked his head to listen to the sound of the far-off cannonade around Yorktown. Bad as it would be back within the lines, they would be better off there than out in the wilds on their own so poorly equipped.
'Morning, Alan,' Burgess Chiswick said, plopping down next to him on the sand as though it were merely another morning back in the redoubt.
'Burgess,' Alan replied, 'glad to see you still among the living.'
'Not for want of trying on the foe's part, I assure you. The very devil of a quandary we're in here, is it not?' Burgess said.
'Goddamn Admiral Graves.' Alan sighed. 'He'll never come now.'
'Nor will General Clinton, so goddamn him, too. Have a sip on this,' Burgess said, offering a flask of liquor; it was corn whiskey.
'We must really be in trouble,' Alan quipped after sliding that liquid fire down his gullet. 'I'm beginning to like this.'
After a brief rest, there was enough water over the tidal flat to try to drag Feather's barge off. They shared out the hands to give equal rowing strength to both boats and started heading up north again, close enough together to talk back and forth. Feather, now that he felt rescued, was talkative and full of lore about the Chesapeake.
'Over ta starboard, that's Guinea Marsh.' He pointed. 'An' that's Big Island beyond. Now, ta larboard, we'll turn west inta this 'ere inlet. Round t'other side o' 'Og Island, ya'll see solid land. I 'member they's a cove, runs back like a notch offa this inlet. Damn near cuts Jenkins Neck inta an island, an' marshes on either 'and afore we gets to woods an' 'ard ground. No reason nobody'd come down 'ere alookin' fer us, an' mebbe not a dozen farmers down 'ere anyways.'
'Been here before, have you?' Alan asked, weary of the garrulous lecturer. He wished fervently that Feather would shut the hell up and let him be as miserable as he wanted to be.
'Did some tradin' 'ereabouts 'tween hitches, afore the Rebellion,' Feather went on. 'Sweet li'l barque outa Boston, an' we'd row in ta pick up baccy an' whatnot an' land trade goods. Mind ye, 'twern't strictly legal, Mister Lewrie, 'cause the King's Stamps wasn't on everything but…'
'Is this your cove off the inlet?' Alan demanded, pointing to the left at a narrow waterway that led back almost to the south.
'No, sir, that's a false cove. Good beach fer smugglin' at low tide at the back of it, but we got further ta go. Now like I said, we wuz…'
I wonder if anyone would mind if I shot him? Alan asked himself.
At nearly nine in the morning they discovered the cove that Feather went on (and on) about, a long and narrow tongue of open water between salt marshes and some higher ground with scrubby coastal forest on it. Alan could tell Feather to shut his gob in case there were enemy lookouts about, which brought a blissful silence, broken only by the sound of the oars and the birds, and the continual barrage that was by then a natural background sound, much like a ship groaning as it worked across the sea while they slept. It was shallow, and the barges dragged on the bottom now and then and had to be poled across in places, though from the detritus on the shore they could see that there must be at least three feet of water at high tide.
'Lots of trash washed up.' Governour was pointing. 'Once we put in we can cut some brush and cover the boats easily enough. You couldn't spot 'em 'til you stumbled across 'em.'
'Thank God for that,' Alan said.
They came to the end of the cove. To the west there was still salt marsh and some barren sand humps broken by stunted scrub growth. On the left hand, to the east, there was firmer beach and a long finger of green land to screen them from the sea. A small creek poured down into the back of the cove and meandered off to the south and west, too shallow to be navigated. All about were thick stands of trees.
'Put in to the east of the creek,' Alan said softly. 'Fill that barrico first thing, if it's fresh water.'
'My men can fill their canteens, and then we must needs reconnoiter,' Governour said. 'Your sailors should wait near the boats, just in case, ready to shove off. Wait as long as you can, mind.'
'I'll not abandon you, whatever you run into,' Alan swore.
'God bless you, then,' Governour said, readying his arms.
Almost as soon as the barges stuck their bows into shore, the Loyalist soldiers were off and gone as silently as smoke going up a chimney, rifles on half cock and long sword-bayonets fixed in case their cartouches and primings were bad. They faded off into the woods and the underbrush and disappeared, scouting like savages in all directions.
'Coe, take a party to fetch water. Feather, stand ready to cast off in case they run back here and say it's not safe.'
Feather was silent and yawning with nervous trepidation now that they were back ashore in hostile territory, which was a blessing for Alan. The men clutched their cutlasses, those ashore squatting down near the high tide mark, those in the boats flexing their muscles to leap out and push off at the first 'View Halloo.'
Alan sat down on the bow of his boat, feet resting on the sand and carefully scraped the caked powder from his pistols' priming pans. He shook some loose powder from his powder flask and rolled it between his fingers to determine how dry it was, and reprimed his weapons. The pine plugs were still in the barrels, so there was a good chance that the charges were still dry in the muzzles. Both ends of the plugs were dry to the touch.
Mollow came creeping back through the scrub, bringing a gasp of alarm from the tense sailors, who were so keyed up even the sight of a red coat could frighten them.
'Mister Governour says 'tis clear,' Mollow reported to Lewrie with his usual lack of formality. 'But they's a plantation over yonder.'
'Anyone about?' Alan asked as calmly as he could, repocketing the pistols.
'Looks ta be. Some house slaves, not so many,' Mollow muttered. 'That means somebody there ta keep 'em in line. Nothin' stirrin', though. Nobody in the fields, an' that rain las' night wouldna done that tabacca no good. Not much o' hit been harvested. Shoulda been dryin' in barns weeks ago.'
'Big place?' Alan wondered aloud.
'Bigger'n some,' Mollow allowed with a shrug, then busied himself with his damp canteen. 'Water's frayush, iffen ya go up the crick a ways.'
Burgess came drifting back to the cove and waved Alan to him.
'Quiet as a country church.' He grinned as he offered his full canteen to Lewrie. 'Looks to be only one farm this far down the neck, and it's a big one. Twenty, thirty slave cabins t'other side of these woods. Lots of corn and
