The French Admiral Read online

  God, I wish I could just scream, or something! he thought; instead of having to sham all this cow-stupid calm! I swear! All these bugs, the filth and ordure . . . sleeping on the cold ground? Do I get back aboard Desperate and out to sea, I’ll never complain about Navy life again!

  Realizing how desperate he was to make such a vow, he could have pinched himself to see if he was not already dreaming. But he had to wait a long time for sleep to come that night, while the ground trembled ever so gently with the vibrations of the approaching army.

  “Pull out?” Governour Chiswick spat. “Damme, that’s a wrench.”

  “Pull out to where?” Burgess asked.

  “Back into the inner fortifications closer to Yorktown,” Governour informed them, waving a feeble hand toward the east.

  “Bah, das ist . . .” Heros von Muecke searched for the right word in English but failed to find anything suitable. “Sheiss!” he finally spat. “Ve here der bastards can skin!”

  “The Star Redoubt can control the western approaches to the town and everything else is either marsh or ravine,” Governour said. “They don’t think our position is favorable. It’s not just us, mind. The entire outer defense line is being pulled back. On the other bank of the creek’s ravines there’s high ground . . . where we can dig in. Lord Cornwallis doesn’t think he has the spare troops to man such a long perimeter.”

  “The hell we can’t!” Burgess bragged. “Just let the shits try!”

  “We have our orders,” Governour said.

  Alan, who had been sitting back in the pavilion and listening to the argument, had only one thought: to get his artillery evacuated. Then there might even be a chance to reembark the guns into Desperate, take a much-needed bath, and get aboard ship and away from this nightmare.

  “My guns,” he said. “I need horse teams and limbers.”

  “Will those carriages hold up?” Governour asked.

  “Of course they will,” Alan snapped. “For the two guns mounted on them, that is. The third gun needs a heavy wagon to take the barrel and a second to take the truck and gun tools.”

  “I’ll send a rider to ask for them, then,” Governour said. “That means we have to stay here ’til Mister Lewrie’s guns are out of here, though. I’ll tell the staff that, too.”

  This time there would be no thought of dismantling the ramparts.

  The tents and shelters were taken down and folded up, the personal gear was bundled into field packs, the magazines emptied once more and the guns rolled out of position, ready for the horse teams to arrive. But the third gun could only be held in abeyance. It took the effort of all the naval party to lift the weight of a long nine barrel from the gun truck with heavy tackle slung below the piece, then laid out on the ground on a section of heavy netting.

  When the teams did arrive, it was a scrawny pack of beasts that had been despatched. The grazing had not been the best, and the corn and oats were directed to the troops’ diet instead of the horses. With the third barrel in the wagon, finally, it took a double team of eight of the horses to draw it, and the men had to assist the remaining animals with their own muscle power, up through the draw, down the back side, along the edge of the marshes to the main road, sometimes unharnessing some horses to double up whenever a gun bogged down.

  They rolled into Yorktown and were left on their own after the North Carolina troops and the Jagers were sent off to their new quarters. Alan bade everyone a hearty good-bye, even von Muecke, and then sat down by the side of the road to wait for instructions since the army staff seemed to have forgotten about them completely. After getting thoroughly bored with an hour of inactivity, Alan wandered off to the docks.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, doffing his hat to a naval lieutenant who was directing the work of a party loading barges to supply the troops across the river.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I am in charge of three guns from Desperate, sir,” Alan said. “And we were posted on the far bank of the creek until this morning. Now no one has a clue about what we are to do with them. There are three long nines, two on field carriages and one still on a naval carriage.”

  “Well, why do you not ask the teamsters?”

  “They only want their animals and wagons back and have no instructions as to taking us anyplace else, sir.”

  “Damme, what a muddle!” the lieutenant swore. “Trust the army to have the brains of a crop-sick dominee do-little! See the headquarters, back of the town.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He had not gone a hundred yards, though, before he ran into David Avery and gunner’s mate Tulley, and gave a great shout to get their attention.

  “Alan!” David cried back. “How do you keep?”

  “Full of fleas but main well, considering,” Alan replied, very glad to see someone from the ship once more. “Look here, the army has no idea about what to do with my guns, and . . .”

  “Gawd a-mighty, Mister Lewrie, wot ya been doin’ wi’ my guns?” Tulley exploded, seeing the impromptu field carriages.

  “I wrote the captain of them,” Alan snapped. “He seemed most impressed, Mister Tulley.” Treghues had indeed replied to Lewrie’s letter with a most kind answer, giving faint praise for his initiative and creativity, but it was praise nonetheless, and that from a man who had recently been willing to feed Lewrie to the fires of hell and help shovel some good, hot-burning sea-coal into the bargain, so Alan was having none of it.

  “Damn, there’s two guns wot we’ll never get back now!” Tulley spat.

  “Get back?” Alan asked, perplexed.

  “Captain Treghues asked for some of his artillery back, since we were the only ship left in harbor of any size that was even partially armed,” David explained. “When Cornwallis decided to withdraw into the inner defense line, the staff said we could have them, since they were on naval trucks and unsuitable for a siege work. But now . . .”

  “Even the smashers?” Alan wondered, asking about the carronades.

  “Well, no, they do want to hold onto those,” David said, taking a keen interest in the field carriages himself. “Even so, we are leaving four pieces on the Gloucester side, but we got my nine-pounder back aboard this morning, and we can refit your third gun. But these . . .”

  “What if we can get them back aboard right away?” Alan pressed, eager to get off the land. “We can knock the trails and limbers off, put them back on their own small wheels and axles. What would you wager the army doesn’t even know of them?”

  “They know,” David said sadly.

  “Damn,” Lewrie groaned in misery.

  “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 Derry Down or When the World Turned Upside Down. The French troops wore white with rose, purple, green, or black facings. The Rebels looked natty in dark blue and buff with white breeches and various regimental trim.

  The Rebels and French bands serenaded them as their troops dug and countermarched and drilled, or toiled with improving artillery positions, and the marines paraded before the ramparts as well, playing Heart of Oak and Rule, Britannia, until Alan was sick of hearing them.

  At night, the land across the ravine of Yorktown Creek, the woods and the fields were swarming with small squad fires in a glittering arc from the York River down to below Moore’s House, out of reach of rifle fire or small arms. Strangely, both sides held their fire, even though the artillery could have put the fear of God and British gunnery up the Rebels and their allies. There was a rumor making the rounds that those insane Rebels had gotten up on their own ramparts of a freshly dug parallel and performed the manual of arms in Prussian style, and it was such a good show that not a shot had been fired, though their Colonel Alexander Hamilton could have been handed his arse on a plate for forcing his troops to do such a stunt. And through it all, Graves and Hood and Gen
eral Clinton and his four thousand reinforcements were also only a rumor, for they did not come. The skies clouded up and rained occasionally, and the nights were becoming chillier, the days less warm—more like home back in England in late summer, when the apples were ripe for the plucking, ruddy with the first frost.

  The forage situation for the thousands of horses was getting desperate, and with too many animals in the fortifications providing a sanitary problem, many were turned out to crop the late summer grass on their own, between the lines. They would not be called upon to haul guns or wagons, not for weeks to come, it looked like, and they were already half-famished for want of good corn or grain. Come to think of it, so were the troops, and their needs came before horses and mules.

  Making the situation even worse when it came to rations, there were thousands of black faces in the fortifications; slaves from the many plantings in the Chesapeake and the Tidewater region who had been dragged off as moveable property confiscated for the Crown, or had escaped from their masters and were hoping for eventual freedom from their Rebel owners if the British were successful in withstanding the siege. Their labor was handy to dig and improve the defenses or serve as bearers from the warehouses and armories to the guns.

  Alan ended up with half a dozen to help tail on the tackles to run out his guns and to keep a supply of shot and cartridges coming from his magazines. A more miserable lot he had never seen in his life; the blacks in the Indies were freemen, at least the ones he had seen around the ports. There were many who had signed aboard King’s ships after their European crews had succumbed to the many fevers, and they were rated as landsmen or ordinary seamen, paid the same wages as an English sailor. Some of the younger ones even made damn good topmen and able seamen after a few years. But this lot were as thin as wild dogs, clothed tag-ragand-bobtail, poorer than even the worst-off gin drinkers in some London stew. They responded to the cheerful friendliness of the British sailors with caution and cringed like whipped pups if anyone even looked sharp in their direction; Alan thought that had a lot to do with the lash marks on their backs that their thin clothes could not cover. When he allowed them a scrap of sailcloth to make a snug lean-to near the battery, their gratitude was so humble and heartfelt that he was almost repulsed by their suddenly adoring neediness.