The French Admiral

He was in the bricked back terrace, ready to enter the house by the back door when a runner came panting in from the fields, calling for Lieutenant Chiswick, and everything went for nought.

'Riders acomin'!' he heard the runner gasp out.

Goddamn, the Rebels have found us! he thought in sudden fear. He dashed into the house to fetch his pistols and his cutlass and found both Chiswick brothers priming their officers' model Ferguson rifles and a squad of soldiers running into the front hall.

'What is it?' Alan demanded as he checked his primings.

'Half a dozen riders coming, goddammit!' Burgess spat. 'For your life, go and tell your men to keep out of sight. Do you have any arms with your men?'

'No, just a sentry or two along the creek.'

'Move, Lewrie!' Governour ordered harshly.

Alan ran into Coe and passed the order, then went back into the house. North Carolina Volunteers by then were hiding by the windows, and another party was sprinting into the hedges to the east of the front yard. Governour shoved a Ferguson into Alan's hands.

'Here, load up. It's their lives or ours now.'

Alan screwed the breech plug open, ripped a dry cartouche with his teeth, and fumbled the ball into the breech, pouring in the powder behind it. His hands were trembling slightly and his insides were by turns hot and cold at the thought of discovery and battle.

'Mollow, Knevet, do you get to the upper windows. Take two men with you to keep the civilians from giving us away,' Governour snapped to his non-coms, and his best marksmen.

Alan stood well back from the window as he primed the pan of the rifle with a metal flask. From the front parlor he could see six riders coming up the sand-and-shell drive to the big house, men in blue and yellow, the peculiar horizon blue of Lauzun's Legion that Governour had described to him at supper the night before, a couple of men in outlandish fringed hunting shirts of an almost purple color, waving their tricornes or their muskets over their heads and shouting as though they were after a fox.

They clattered up into the carriage drive that circled a large flower garden before the front terrace. 'Hello the house! Come out and hear the wondrous news! Cornwallis is taken with his whole army! They surrender tomorrow! Let's celebrate!'

'Let 'em dismount,' Governour whispered. 'Fire on my order only.'

But they did not dismount, continuing to curvet and wheel about the drive, spilling over into the flower beds as their mounts collided and pranced with their riders' excitement.

'Here, Mistress Hayley, Miss Ledbetter, come out and hear our news,' a rakish Legion officer called, sheathing the heavy cavalry saber he had been flashing over his head.

'Maybe they've gone off,' a militia officer said, frowning.

'Goddamn them,' Governour spat. 'Fire!'

He leveled his rifle and took aim. Burgess and two riflemen went to the double doors and flung them open. Alan joined another rifleman at his window, jabbing their muzzles through the glass panes with a horrendous noise. Then came the sharp crack of rifle fire, and men began to spill from their saddles. Horses neighed and screamed as their riders screamed in sudden terror. The rakish Legion officer was punched in the stomach with a rifle ball of .65 caliber, and blood spewed onto his saddle and his horse, though he kept his seat and tried to make off. He did not get very far before a second ball smashed his horse down, and they both tumbled into the flower beds to thrash out their lives. The militia offficer's horse reared back and flung him. Even as he rolled to his feet, Burgess shot him down. One trooper tried to draw a musketoon from his saddle but was riddled by two rounds from the upper windows. The rest were going down before they could get off a shot, except for one man on a roan who thought discretion was the better part of valor and tried to ride off back up the road for help or safety.

It had all happened so quickly that Alan had not had time to even cock his rifle. He rushed out onto the front terrace with the others in time to see two riflemen to the west stand up from cover and blast the fleeing rider and his mount to the ground. There was one final shriek as the man flipped out of his saddle and fell heavily.

A .65 caliber rifle ball fired from close range did hideous damage to a man. Alan walked out into the flower beds through all the carnage and gore to a horse that had been gut-shot and was down and screaming. He cocked the rifle and laid the muzzle within an inch of the ear and put it out of its misery, sick to his stomach at the suddenness of the skirmish.

He had fought at sea often enough to see death and pain, but at least there a man was given warning and a chance to defend himself. The art of skirmish and ambush as practiced by the army left him shaken and weak, though it did not seem to affect the North Carolina Volunteers. They came trooping back into the yard, laughing and joking and commenting on their accuracy, flipping bodies over to see what damage they had done.

'Here, this one's still alive,' Alan said, kneeling down by one young man dressed in the Legion's blue and yellow who had been shot in his lungs.

'Oh, God, I'm killed!' the man managed, rolling his head back and forth in pain and biting his lips. 'Damn ye ta hell fer all eternity, ye baystards!'

'He won't last long,' Governour said after looking at the hole in the man's chest through which blood pumped at every tortured breath. 'Listen here, man. Who were you?'

'Hanrahan,' the foe gasped. 'Seamus Hanrahan.'

'An Irish turncoat fighting against the Crown.' Governour nodded. 'What's this about Cornwallis?'

'He give up yesterday and surrenders his army in the mornin', ye Tory shit-sack,' the dying man said, trying to smile. 'Ye may ha' killed me, but you'll all be dead tamorra and joinin' me in hell!'

'Visiting the ladies to celebrate, were you?' Alan prodded. 'A bit premature of you. How long before you're missed?'

'I'll not be givin' ye that,' the man whispered as the effort to talk sapped his last strength. His skin was paling quickly and his lips were turning blue as his lungs filled with blood.

He coughed once, a bright scarlet bloom of life burst from his lips and then he died.

Governour got to his feet and began to reload his rifle as if nothing untoward had happened. 'Any more of 'em still have life in 'em?'

There were none.

'With luck, these will not be missed until tomorrow morning,' Governour said as his troopers began to drag the dead away. 'Here, they have some weapons we need. Strip 'em of their guns and powder.'

Governour bent down to a dead horse and fetched off from the saddle a handsome pair of long-barreled dragoon pistols, which he presented to Lewrie. 'You'll find these shoot straighter than your own pistols, and you'll need some extra weapons. That man will have powder, patches and ball on his corpse. The caliber will probably not fit your own.'

They recovered a round dozen saddle pistols, two pair of shorter pocket pistols, four French model 1777 cavalry musketoons, and a pair of .69 caliber St. Etienne muskets from the militia officer and his dead orderly, along with a welcome supply of dry powder, ball and flints. They had dried some of their own powder and cartouches, but more was always welcome since half the prepared rounds carried by each soldier had been soaked and rendered useless.

'What if they are missed, Governour?' Alan asked after he had found a pocket for all the iron he was collecting. 'Wouldn't they be due back with their units in the morning?'

'Three very junior officers and their orderlies wouldn't be all that very important,' Governour told him. 'They may peeve their commanders by not being present for the surrender parade, but no one would think to search for them until it's all over. They're off celebrating victory in their own style with complaisant ladies! They might send a lone rider with a message, but it's a long way back to their positions at Gloucester, six miles, maybe further, because the road swings north to clear the swamps and marshes and goes above the shore of this Perrin River, and there's no bridges or ferries. Might take a rider four hours on bad roads to come and go.'

'So if they had to be back by ten tomorrow morning,' Burgess said. 'Seems a reasonable hour… no one would comment on their continued absence until two or three in the afternoon, if they sent a messenger for them right away. That would be the earliest he and they could return to Gloucester. And we could be gone by then.'

'What if we worked all night on the boats?' Governour asked Lewrie. 'We could depart even sooner, could we not?'

'The tide would serve to get us out of the inlet,' Alan replied. 'Besides, if the messenger and these poor souls