The French Admiral Read online

  Once full dark had fallen, the galley stoves had been lit and the steep-tubs began to bubble and boil to prepare the crew’s dinner, though few men or officers who had eaten with such gusto at dinner in the forenoon watch had much of an appetite for their plain-commons supper. Avery was in the evening watch, which left Carey, Forrester, and Lewrie in their small mess compartment to be served boiled salt beef and biscuits, livened only by a communal pot of mustard and the watered-down issue of red wine come aboard in New York, with a redolence of varnish. There were only four men in their mess, and the normal issue for a seaman’s mess of eight was a four-pound cut of meat. Minus gristle and bone, it might make a third of a pound of meat for each man. Theirs, however, was even tougher than most, composed of more useless junk, and had the consistency, even after boiling, of old leather.

  “Freeling, if you do not deal sharply with the mess cook when they choose the joints, I shall see you at the gratings,” Forrester threatened, throwing his utensils down in disgust. “This is inedible!”

  “Aye, zur,” Freeling answered noncommittally. He was half dead already, a toothless oldster of forty who appeared over sixty from a hard life of seafaring, herniated from hoisting kegs with stay tackle once too often, shattered by too many years aloft in all weathers. He had seen too many midshipmen come and go and turn into officers, and held a particular abiding hatred for each and every one of them. Even bribes could not move him to charitable efforts on their behalf.

  “I mean it this time, damn your eyes,” Forrester snarled.

  “You’re not going to eat that?” Carey asked, eyeing his plate and the raggled strands of meat. Carey would eat anything.

  Forrester did not answer but picked up his utensils once more and began to gouge at the beef to carve it into bite-sized pieces. It was much like trying to slice old rope with the edge of a fork as the only appliance.

  “Why not just pick it up and gnaw?” Alan said. Forrester was the only person he had ever seen who seemed to prosper on ships’ rations. The lad had been fat as a piglet when Alan came aboard in spring, and now was in such fine and obese fettle as to excite the fantasy that soon some villagers would trice him up by his heels and bleed him for the fall killing. It was September after all, almost time for the first frosts and the slaughter of excess animals for the salt kegs or the smokehouses.

  “That would be more your style,” Forrester said. “I leave it to you. Such a lot of peasants! God rot the lot of you!”

  “Did you hear some snuffling and rooting, Carey?” Alan jibed. “My ears definitely did. Or was it human speech after all?”

  “Oink, oink,” Carey said through a mouthful of biscuit.

  “Do not row me tonight, Lewrie,” Forrester snapped. “Perhaps this performance of ours today did not affect you, but, by God, it angered me!”

  “But it did not seem to affect your appetite,” Lewrie said, happy to have Forrester to abuse to alleviate his own sense of gloom concerning the battle. Desperate had been short two midshipmen when he had come into her — one had drowned, the other was a raging sponge who had been drunk most of the time and was finally dismissed, a hard feat to accomplish at any level of English society in these days. Forrester had been the tyrant of the mess until Avery and Lewrie had sided with Carey and played one prank after another on him until Forrester had been driven almost to distraction. It enlivened the usual drabness of their existence, and there was little that Forrester could do about it. One did not complain to superiors that one could not hold his own against the spiteful cruelty of his peers. It was their rough and tumble microcosm of society, where lads as young as ten or twelve became men along with becoming potential officers, and if one could not cope, one could not hope to prosper. It had come to blows a few times, at which point Forrester could only snarl and withdraw and scheme to gain his revenge, an event that so far he had never achieved, for with three against one, he had no chance. His not being the brightest person ever dropped also had a great deal to do with Forrester’s frustrations.

  Angry or not, Forrester managed to clean his plate and call for the cheese after Freeling had removed the joint to save the last of it for Avery.

  “A small slice for me,” Carey said as Forrester cut into the hoop of fairly fresh Cheddar recently shipped from England.

  “Cut it yourself,” Forrester replied, still sulking and taking the equal of two men’s shares.

  “Oink, oink,” Carey said again.

  “Damn you, will you stop that stupid noise!” Forrester barked, rising from his seat and taking a swing at the younger boy with the back of his hand. Before Lewrie could respond and deflect the blow completely, he had succeeded in cuffing Carey on the head.

  “How would you like me to kick your nutmegs up between your teeth, Forrester,” Alan warned, grabbing the offending hand and holding it immobile against Forrester’s best efforts to free it. “By God, it’s blow for blow in here, and well you know it, just like a Scottish feud.”

  “Goddamn you, Lewrie, unhand me,” Forrester commanded, squirming with the effort to free himself. “I’ll square your yards for you!”

  “The hell you will,” Alan said, laughing cruelly. “You may inherit your daddy’s title and rents, but you’ll always be a churlish, craven pig.”

  Alan let go of Forrester’s arm with a shove that almost unseated him. Forrester glared at him hard while Alan cut himself a slice of the cheese and poured a glass of Black Strap in lieu of port. He knew Forrester’s type from civilian life, the bullying sort who would try to get even backhandedly, but would never face an enemy in a fair fight, and he enjoyed taunting him with a merry grin of physical superiority.

  “How sadly is our aristocracy fallen, Carey, since the days of the Crusades,” Alan scoffed. “Or when they faced Caesar’s legions painted blue with woad.”

  An hour later, the master-at-arms and ship’s corporals came about to see that all lights were extinguished for the night to lessen the mortal danger of fire, and they turned in. Alan took a moment while Forrester was forward in the heads to warn Carey to be on his guard in days ahead.

  “He doesn’t frighten me,” Carey said with a smirk. “What can he do to us? Three of us against him.”

  “But he might get to you when we’re not here.”

  “No matter, you’ll settle him for me,” Carey said, full of young confidence in his older mates to protect him. “But I’ll make him pay for that slap.”

  “Carey, I think — given the captain’s mood — that you leave well enough alone for now.” Alan frowned. “Let it go, or you’ll get us all in trouble, not just Forrester.”

  Carey had only smirked at him once more, then skinned out of his clothes and sprang into his hammock to curl up and sleep, and Alan thought no more about it, eager to get to sleep himself for a few hours before his midnight-to-four tour of duty in the middle watch.

  Perhaps it was something about blue woad that set Carey off, for at dawn quarters the next morning, all the midshipmen turned up on deck to await the rising of the sun and the possible renewal of the battle with the French fleet, whose riding lights had been visible all night on the south-east horizon, still headed out into the Atlantic under easy sail.

  As the grayness of predawn began to lessen the darkness, and the binnacle, belfry, and taffrail lanterns began to lose their strength, some of the men began to titter into their hands and almost bite their tongues to keep from laughing out loud about something.

  Must be a grand thing to get them going, Alan thought wearily after another night on deck with only three hours’ sleep. There’s not all that much to be amused at in this fleet.

  “Silence on deck,” Lieutenant Railsford snapped, unusually out of sorts.

  “Whatever is with the people this morning?” Treghues growled, stalking by the windward rail, unshaven as of yet and unfed.

  “Don’t know, sir,” Railsford replied.

  “I’ll prove to them they have nothing to laugh about after yesterday, by . . .” Treghues sai
d, almost blaspheming himself.

  I like him better when he has a mug of whatever that stuff is, Alan thought, planning to ask Mr. Dorne if the captain was under any medication; not that he really expected an answer, but he was intrigued anyway by the sudden change in behavior that Treghues evinced whenever he partook of it.

  A man next to him on the gun deck began to laugh softly and Alan went to his side. “If you wish to be at the gratings in the forenoon, go ahead and laugh, why don’t you?”

  “Sorry, sor,” the man replied, much too brightly.

  “Just what is so all-fired funny to you?” Alan queried, and the gunner jerked a finger in the general direction of the starboard gangway and screwed his mouth shut, trembling with the effort not to laugh.

  Alan looked up at the gangway. Nothing funny up there; the yeoman of the sheets looked about as stupid as usual, the marines were mustered properly at the hammock nettings with their muskets, and the landsmen and brace-tenders all seemed normal enough. Lieutenant Peck was pacing slowly, as was his wont, with his burly sergeant in tow, just as every morning.

  “Oh, my God!” Alan gaped at Forrester as he came aft from the fo’c’s’le belfry. “Carey, you little shit, you’ve done for us, by God if you haven’t! It had to have been Carey . . . Avery has more bloody sense!”

  Forrester had had his countenance adorned during the night. There was blue paint on his face, large dots on each cheek, a false mustache a Hessian guardsman would be proud of, great arching false brows, a streak down the nose and two quarter-circles on the jowls to emphasize their roundness, with a final large blot on the slack chin.

  “Jesus,” Coke, the bosun, commented as he spotted Forrester. “We’re for it now, Mister Lewrie!”

  “Amen to that,” Lewrie whispered back.

  “When’ud ya find the time, sir?” Coke asked once he was past them.

  “Me?” Alan yelped. “By God, it wasn’t me . . . honest!”

  “Merciful God!” A wail came from aft on the quarterdeck as Railsford spotted Forrester’s phyz in the lightening gloom. “Mister Forrester, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Mister Railsford?” Forrester snapped back, too sleepy to be wary, too surprised by Railsford tone and totally unknowing the nature of his sin.

  “What sort of harlequin are you to appear caparisoned so?”

  “Sir?” Forrester replied, on his guard now and feeling about his body to see if he was properly dressed after donning his clothes in the darkness of the midshipmen’s mess with no time for a peek in a mirror.

  “You . . . clown!” Treghues shouted in his best quarterdeck voice as soon as he spotted the miscreant. “How dare you turn out like that! Get below and wash that . . . that foolishness off at once, do you hear!”

  “Sir?” Forrester begged, aware that he was in trouble for sure.

  “And I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing the first lieutenant,” Treghues said.

  “But, sir . . .”

  “Now, idiot!” Railsford commanded.

  The word “wash” alerted Forrester to the possible nature of his offense. As he saluted and spun away to disappear below decks, he felt of his waistcoat, his breeches, then his face as a last resort, and was appalled to bring his fingers away still sticky-damp with blue paint.

  “Mister Lewrie, get your miserable carcass up here instantly!” Treghues bawled, and there was no denying the summons. With a bitter shrug he scampered aft to a quarter-deck ladder and faced his irate captain.

  “Sir,” he said, doffing his cocked hat in salute.

  “I know your brand of deviltry by now, Lewrie, and this time you shall pay for it in full measure,” Treghues said, spittle flying from his lips.

  “I did not do it, sir.”

  “Don’t bother to lie to me, Lewrie!”

  “On my honor, sir, I did not do it,” Alan persisted.

  “Avery, Carey, come aft at once,” Railsford commanded.

  “There’s no need for that, Mister Railsford. I know who the biggest sinner in my own crew is, you can be assured of that.”

  “Sir, Mister Lewrie had the middle watch all night.”

  “Sir,” the other midshipmen said as they reported and saluted.

  “On your honor, did you paint Forrester’s face blue, Avery?” their lieutenant asked of him. Avery had seen Forrester’s new appearance and had said nothing, but even the seriousness of the situation could not keep the smirk off his face as he swore up and down that he had not done the deed.

  “There’s nothing to laugh about,” Railsford barked, his own lips quivering at the edge of humor anyway, which did nothing to keep Avery from grinning even broader. “Carey, was it you?”

  “Oh, this is a waste of time,” Treghues grumbled. “Mister Coke!”

  “I did it, sir,” Carey said, pleased with his handiwork.

  “You?” Treghues gaped.

  “Aye, sir. Forrester cuffed me at supper last night.”

  Forrester reappeared on deck, the sharp edges of his new makeup now smeared, but still bright blue.

  “I told you to go below and wash!”

  “It won’t come off, sir,” Forrester admitted miserably. “It’s paint, sir. I tried, sir, honest I did!”

  “Did you strike Carey last night?” Railsford demanded.

  “I . . .”

  “Did you or did you not?”

  “Lewrie stopped him from doing more,” Carey stuck in mischievously.

  “Sir, they were . . .”

  “Did you strike a fellow midshipman?” Railsford reiterated.

  “Aye, sir, I did, but they . . .”

  “Bully!” Railsford roared. “To think of a young man of your size, cuffing a little boy about. You disappoint me, Mister Forrester.”

  “Vile wretch,” Treghues said, frowning heavily at his relative. “I had thought better of you until now, boy! And you, Carey, playing at shines as men such as us bleed and die yonder. All of you, shame on you for being such a spoiled pack of unfeeling prodigals. What did we do yesterday? Watched a battle being lost, good ships shot to pieces, good men shot to pieces, and you dare to cut such a caper and still call yourselves gentlemen-in-training as professional sea-officers. Well, you’ll pay for it. Mister Coke, a dozen of your best for Forrester and Carey, and a half-dozen for Lewrie and Avery as well. Mastheading for Forrester and Carey until I remember to let them come down. And get that . . . stuff, off your face. Carry on!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Once Treghues was gone below and the strokes had been given out, Railsford turned on them as well. “Goddamn you all for this childish . . . shit. I shall have the next fool flogged again, so help me!”

  The sun was fully up after quarters were stood down, a day of calm seas and light winds. The sixth of September could have been a marvelous day to be sailing, were the circumstances different. The British fleet still sailed in easy column towards the south-east, pursuing the French, who were perhaps five or six miles off to leeward, drawn further and further away from the Chesapeake and the coast. But there was no question of battle being rejoined; too many ships had been roughly handled and needed urgent repair. The light winds were a blessing, allowing shattered topmasts to be struck so they could be fished or replaced with what few spare spars had been available from ships less hurt.

  Admiral Drake’s van ships had taken the worst of the pummeling; the Intrepid and Shrewsbury looked as though even an easy swell would roll the masts right out of them. But Terrible was the worst off, nearly in sinking condition, and her many wounded being parceled out to the less damaged ships for medical attention. The chain pumps clanked continually to stem the inrush of the sea from her bilge and lower decks.

  The frigates still dashed back and forth on their ceaseless errands to scout dangerously close to the French and to keep an eye on their intentions, to carry spare timber and spars from well-endowed vessels to those most needy, and to pass messages too complicated for the meager signaling book.


  Or messages too vitriolic to be shared, Alan thought grimly. He could imagine the choler with which Graves might be penning a despatch to the Admiralty about the debacle, dashing off irate questions and accusations to Admiral Hood; Drake might be pouring out pure bile about the near destruction of his ships in the van, thrown away without proper support by the rest of the fleet, especially Hood’s rear division. Hood and Drake might be countering with invective about Graves’s incredible decision to let the French form beyond the Middle Ground and the waste of a splendid opportunity that Providence did not give grudgingly to any admiral.

  How long does it take to become an admiral, anyway, Alan wondered as the usual ship’s day proceeded to spin out its ordered sameness. Even with a newly like me in charge, we’d have accomplished more yesterday than what this pack of fools did. And if I should ever make flag rank, will we still have a navy at this rate? We should have stood on into the bay and cut the Frogs’ gizzards out of them! Even I know that.

  The day before, the sight and sound of battle—in the early stages at least—had raised in him a martial ardor and pride in his uniform that he could scarcely credit as coming from such a churl as himself, and now it all seemed like a fever dream. What was the point in becoming an officer in such an inept Service? What sort of honor and credit would it bring him, and what sort of glory was there to reap with such an addled pack of bunglers?

  Why are we still following that damned de Grasse like a cart horse on the way to the stable? Alan wondered. There was a French army in the Chesapeake now landed in Lynn-haven Bay, an army that would force Cornwallis to withdraw within his siege-works sooner or later. The fleet needed to go back and aid the army. Let de Grasse bottle them up in the bay. He would be denied entrance until after the hurricane season began, and had no force of note still with him other than his ships to threaten New York or Charlestown or any other port on the coast. A fleet, even a large one, had never succeeded in taking and holding a garrisoned and fortified location on its own with only marines to put ashore. By God, I don’t believe one of these ridiculous jackanapes in charge over us has the slightest idea what to do with the fleet now. We’d do better with that damned Frog to lead us.